


Invisible To See

by FayJay



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-05
Updated: 2009-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:06:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 94,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Invisible to See </i>is a novel set in JK Rowling's Harry Potter universe, exploring one possible future for some of the key characters. It was begun in November of 2002 and completed in December of 2003; as such the story was conceived without benefit of<i> The Order of the Phoenix</i>, and cleaves only to prior canon.</p><p>It is a swashbuckling tale of love, friendship, romance, redemption and vengeance, and of the messy business of coming to terms with the differences between who you are and who other people want you to be. Or, in other word, growing up. It is very, very, <i>very</i> loosely inspired by <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>, among other things.</p><p>This story is a very long way from being a PWP, but it does involve some explicit and enthusiastic shagging; however, the characters are all over the UK age of consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Most sincere thanks are due to Fearless Diva, my wicked inspiration, and to Rebecca Lizard and SA, for beta assistance. Bless 'em.

Afterwards, when he finally reached the blessed isolation of his room, Draco Malfoy carefully closed the door, checked that no cringing retainer was loitering inside, and then was elaborately sick all over the three hundred year old Berber rug. A house elf apparated at once, its face contorted into an expression of stupid concern, but it vanished promptly when he barked out a sharp threat of clothing.

Draco stared down once more at the dismal mess on the carpet. He knelt there for a long while in silence, shivering and wondering almost abstractedly whether he were going to vomit again. The patterned knot work beneath his splayed fingertips was, he noted, far coarser than it looked, and it struck him that he could not recall ever having touched it before with his bare skin. One dropped things, and in the natural course of events a house elf would pick them up and deal with them appropriately. A Malfoy did not grovel on the floor like some base Mudblood. A Malfoy did not scurry around barefoot, like some tattered Weasley hobbledehoy.

After a little while he was sick again. The acid nastiness stung his sharp tongue and he tried to concentrate on this mundane sensation instead of thinking about - less palatable matters. But it was impossible to stop thinking about less palatable matters. He remembered the look on her face and found himself abruptly unable to stop retching, as his empty stomach roiled and clenched painfully in protest, until there was nothing left to spit out but bile. His head hurt, and the mark freshly branded into his skin hurt, and there was no avoiding the fact that life had taken a turn as unwelcome as it had been unexpected. Growing up was, it turned out, considerably less pleasant than one was led to believe.

Draco didn't notice at what point the tears started. He didn't weep out loud, though; he was, at seventeen, far too old for such infantile tricks. It was a physiological reaction, nothing more. Nevertheless, the tears persisted; his breathing grew ragged and his elegant nose began to drip with inelegant mucus. Draco leaned back against the hard mahogany curves at the foot of the bed and wrapped his arms around his neatly folded knees, hugging himself tightly and willing himself to stop this nonsense at once. It didn't work. He got snot on the sleeve of his robes. He was thoroughly disgusted at his lack of self-control.

He missed his mother.

* * *

 

"Father."

Draco's voice, he was pleased to find, was very close to its usual arrogant lilt. Of course, he had been practising it for several hours now, as the dark sky softened into predawn oyster grey and the sprinkled stars faded out of sight. Lucius glanced up from the pile of scrolls. Draco knew his eyes were still a little red despite the application of cold water, cucumber slices and several charms, but he prided himself on the coolness of his expression, and it seemed that whatever Lucius was seeking, he was satisfied by what he saw. Draco slid into a chair at the breakfast table on one side of his father. Lucius Malfoy smiled tightly and returned his attention to the pile of scrolls.

"Good morning, Draco," he said. There was approval and something deceptively like warmth in his tone.

The solid cherrywood felt incongruously ordinary beneath Draco's fingers. He stared at the surface of the table. The tension in the room lessened not a whit, but both Malfoys made a point of pretending not to notice. Draco felt reasonably sure that he could hold down his half of any conversation that might be forthcoming over coffee and crumpets, and had rehearsed his intonations and expression with a desperate intensity that he had never directed at revising for his OWLs. Happily, however, Lucius seemed disinclined to small talk. Draco's composure faltered only infinitesimally when his darting glance fell on the empty seat opposite Lucius. The house elves had not set Narcissa's place this morning, but for some reason they had still prepared the usual amount of food. The pristine linen was piled high with far too much for two people. Draco blindly buttered a triangle of toast and reached for the marmalade. Far too much food. He noticed that they had even put out Narcissa's favourite orange blossom honey, despite the fact that neither Draco nor Lucius cared for it at all, and he felt something suspiciously like an unvoiced sob welling up in his chest. Stupid. They should throw the stuff out.

Tears prickled terrifyingly behind his eyes, but he ignored them and concentrated on lifting the crisp toast to his lips. It might as well have been cardboard. He chewed stoically and avoided looking at his father; if there was one thing that Malfoys could do well, it was appear aloof and at ease in the presence of enemies. Not that Draco was entirely sure Lucius was his enemy, but he was taking nothing for granted. And Lucius must know this. Draco had never really had a flare for chess in the past, but he had a feeling that he'd better damned well acquire the skill fast. The stillness of the breakfast room was disturbed only by dutiful chewing, by the businesslike rustle of Lucius's scrolls, the occasional chink of cup against saucer and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

Draco wasn't quite sure what breakfast etiquette was customary on the morning after the night one had seen one's mother killed with slow efficiency in one's stead, but given his ancestors' reputations he doubted this was the first time a Malfoy had been responsible for the demise of his own spouse. There probably was a chapter on the matter in one of their volumes of etiquette, Draco reflected, feeling something dangerously like hilarity bubbling away under the surface. He plucked another piece of toast from the rack and started to weigh up his options as dispassionately as he could whilst he scraped butter over the brittle surface. There would be time to indulge in histrionics once he was out of immediate danger. If he could manage to get himself out of immediate danger.

* * *

 

The second time Draco stepped through Voldemort's looking glass, it was with none of the amorphous sense of dread he had experienced before. This time the dread was very specific and considerably stronger. This time, as he followed his father through the suddenly viscous surface of the mirror, he couldn't help wondering whether Lucius was going to let him die. Probably not, on balance, but all bets were off now. If Lucius could kill Narcissa - and if Narcissa could calmly lead her own son through the portal in the mistaken belief that Draco was the intended sacrifice - then all the old certainties upon which he had built his life were fragile as the thinnest antique glass. He had been living in a fool's paradise until now, but Draco Malfoy had finally realised that nobody else could be counted on to protect him. It was a lowering discovery.

Passing through the mirror was an odd experience in and of itself. The glass was not precisely a port key, but the physical sensation of travelling through it was much the same. Draco felt an odd twist in his guts as he was jerked over the threshold and the silver surface melted around him.

The other side was just as he remembered it, and he had no idea where in the world it might be. The walls of the room were covered with opaque mirrors: dozens of enchanted doors into other people's houses, all of them working only at Voldemort's command. Lucius was already striding towards his master and the amassed Death Eaters. Nobody, this time, was screaming. So far.

Voldemort's inner circle comprised men and women whom Draco had known all of his life, and he had spent much of the past few years looking forward rather smugly to the time when he would eventually assume his rightful place among them. He had expected it to be - different. Lucius cast an irritable glance over his shoulder and Draco quickened his pace, knuckles whitening pointlessly around his wand.

There had to be a way out of all this, he told himself desperately. Voldemort glanced towards him, a small frown furrowing his brow, and Draco’s stomach clenched. He did his best to look thrilled at the honour of attending a Death Eater meeting and hoped that Voldemort couldn’t read minds. He was shivering as he took his place at his father's side, half hidden from Voldemort. Draco had always thought that he would feel powerful as and when he joined the ranks of Death Eaters. He hadn't understood what it meant to be one of Voldemort's followers at all.

"We are gathered here to serve you, my Lord," Lucius said. Draco despised his father's tone of voice. Throughout his young life Draco had had it thoroughly impressed upon him that Lucius Malfoy deferred to nobody. When the Dark Lord returned, however, Draco had discovered that his father was capable of obsequiousness and unquestioning obedience, and this had been the first of a succession of surprises.

Draco licked his dry lips. One way or another, he promised himself, he was damned well going to get away before Voldemort decided that he needed another blood sacrifice to prove his followers’ loyalty.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn was painting the sky with streaks of hopeful colour when Draco's feet, awkwardly encased in stolen seven-league boots two sizes too large, landed in the mulch on the fringes of the Forbidden Forest. He gasped out the deactivation spell and let his momentum carry him forward, and a moment later he was sprawling face-down in wet leaves the colour and consistency of soggy Muggle cornflakes. He lay there for a little while, panting and trembling and thoroughly disorientated, and waited for his head to stop spinning and his heartbeat to resume its customary speed. Gradually his white-knuckled grip on the handle of his mother's valise began to relax. The ground was unpleasantly muddy, but it was also blessedly still; broomsticks, Draco reflected with feeling, were definitely the only way to travel. Sadly his beloved Mistral was locked away with Lucius's sturdy Thunderbolt, and it was unlikely to be returned to him at any point in the foreseeable future. His grandfather's Seven League Boots, however, had been stored in a box in the back of his mother's third wardrobe, and Draco very much doubted that his father knew of their existence. Had known of their existence. By now his father must be aware of what had happened; the signature of the spell would be burnt into the atmosphere, and all hell would most certainly have broken loose. Perhaps literally.

Draco more than half expected the very air behind him to be torn open at any moment, and a wrathful Voldemort to emerge amidst crackling flames and billows of brimstone-coloured smoke; surely defecting from the forces of evil couldn't be this simple?

When a horde of angry Death Eaters failed to materialize, Draco got shakily to his feet and brushed the leaves away from his robes. He was about to start walking towards Hogwarts when the sense memory of travelling by Boot assailed him and he paused. It was not something he cared to repeat in a hurry, and on a more practical level he was fairly sure that if he accidentally travelled another seven leagues he would find himself in the middle of the North Sea. Certainly the Boots shouldn't work until the spell was activated, but Draco had been given a crash course in caution recently. Better safe than sorry. He placed the bag gently amidst the leaves, leaned against a convenient oak, balanced on one still-shaking leg and unlaced and removed one boot. The sole of his black sock was soaked through almost as soon as he placed his unshod foot gingerly on the ground, but it didn't seem terribly important in the grand scheme of things. He could, Draco supposed, try to transfigure a handy rock or shrub into a pair of nice warm boots, but transfiguration had never been one of his stronger suits, and in his present state of exhaustion he would probably make Longbottom look like Merlin.

Scowling slightly, Draco began to unlace the other Boot, when a sound over to his right alerted him to the approach of something very large indeed. As he swung back to his feet and grabbed for his wand, drawing breath to utter the first curse that came to mind, he heard Hagrid's unmistakeable voice bellowing "Petrificus Totalus!". With an infuriating lack of dignity Draco found himself frozen into place and slowly toppled over backwards into the mud. A moment later Hagrid's dog was leaning over him snarling and slavering like Voldemort after another reversal of fortunes.

"What we got 'ere, then?" asked Hagrid as he hurried into view, seemingly oblivious to the earliness of the hour. Any normal person would assuredly be fast asleep. Draco was sadly unable to roll his eyes in disgust, but he still did his damnedest to exude as much withering contempt as it was possible for a teenage boy to express whilst lying prone with his limbs contorted awkwardly, his muddy robes tangled around his knees and a large dog dribbling onto his face. "Well I'll be - it's Draco Malfoy! Trying to sneak up on 'ogwarts unawares, are yer? We'll just see what Dumbledore 'as to say about that."

Draco watched the numbskull trying to look threatening, and strove to remember why changing sides had seemed like such a good idea. Remembering, however, entirely failed to cheer him up. When Hagrid shooed the dog out of the way, prised the wand from his stiff fingers and slung Draco over one shoulder, life as a trainee Death Eater began to assume an almost nostalgic glow in Draco's memory. He occupied himself with listing all the different forms of torture he had learned from Lucius and the Dark Lord and considering which might be best suited to Rubeus Hagrid; but his heart wasn't in it. This, Draco realised morosely as he made his undignified entrance through the gates, was how things were going to be from now on. Dumbledore's do-gooders would never take him to their hearts - and really, he hadn't expected or wanted them to, but it was still depressing. Nevertheless he found himself more inclined to trust Dumbledore than Voldemort, and since the Forces of Blandness had managed to foil Voldemort's plans time after time after time, Draco had reached the conclusion that Dumbledore's doddering old duffer act had to be a façade. It was a slender hope, but it was all that he had; because Draco could see, even if Lucius could not, that Voldemort was no more to be depended upon than a rabid dog.

Had he realised, however, that defecting would involve being slung over Hagrid's shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carted unceremoniously over the threshold of Hogwarts with his robes sliding precariously down his thighs and the filthy half-breed's sausage-like fingers hooked around his ankles, Draco might well have had second thoughts. The small mercy for which he was unspeakably grateful was that it was far too early for students to be abroad to witness his humiliation. Accordingly he found himself manhandled through corridors and up staircases to the sole amusement of Peeves and Mrs Norris. All too soon they reached Dumbledore's chamber. Hagrid pounded importantly on the door and after a few moments Dumbledore's voice bade them enter, and then Draco found himself being set on his soggy feet like some sort of toy soldier. The angle at which Hagrid supported Draco obliged him to stare at a pair of green embroidered slippers, the toes of which scrolled right back upon themselves like some frivolous Art Nouveau dream of the Orient. A moment later the spell was dissolved, and Draco's legs promptly collapsed from under him. He stared up to find Professor Dumbledore, clad in a white cambric nightgown and a matching cap, looking down at him with an expression of mild concern.

"Good heavens," said Dumbledore. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Caught 'im trying to sneak in, Professor," explained Hagrid proudly.

"I see. Yes, well that's admirably efficient of you, Rubeus. Thank you. I think I'll be able to handle things from here on in." There was a little pause, and Rubeus Hagrid stayed exactly where he was. Draco could hear him huffing and puffing like the Hogwarts train from Kings Cross. "That will be all, thank you," said Dumbledore pointedly. "I think I can manage Mr Malfoy on my own."

"You're the boss, Professor," said Hagrid. He didn't sound very happy about it. "I'll be on my way, then. If you're sure - ?"

"Quite sure, thank you."

Draco didn't turn to watch the half-giant leave, but he relaxed slightly when he heard the door close.

"Mr Malfoy." Draco's eyes snapped open. He had never heard that tone of voice from Dumbledore in his life. It was disconcerting, but also oddly reassuring; this was not the voice of a benign old duffer, and the expression on the Professor's face was anything but benevolent. It appeared that Lucius really was wrong about the headmaster.

"Professor, I know how this looks but I can explain," Draco said as he scrambled to his feet. His much-abused muscles screamed their protest and he found himself wobbling and grabbing on to a chair for support. Smooth. "I'm not a spy or, ah, part of a scouting party or anything like that. I'm defecting. If you'll have me, that is." It had sounded rather more impressive in his head. "I want to help you stop Voldemort," he added, unnecessarily.

Dumbledore's eyes were narrowed, and Draco had absolutely no idea what was going on behind them. There was a pregnant pause, and Dumbledore scanned Draco's face intently.

"That is certainly a splendid impulse," said Dumbledore. "But you will understand, in the circumstances, that I find myself in need of more concrete proof of your good will. Until five minutes ago I had no inkling that you were dissatisfied with Voldemort's leadership. Indeed, your last words to me were, if I recall correctly: 'I'm off to learn some real magic, you toothless old fraud', and 'Viva Voldemort'. Shouted over your shoulder, I seem to remember, and with every appearance of fervent sincerity."

Draco felt his cheeks reddening.

"I'm - sorry," he said in a small voice, and was surprised to find it easier than anticipated. He was going to have to get used to this, and it might as well be sooner rather than later. "I was stupid. I -um - I didn't understand what it was really like. What it all meant. And," he swallowed and made a monumental effort. "And - I was, ah, unforgivably rude. Sorry."

Dumbledore looked as taken aback as Draco was himself at this declaration, and well he might; Draco could count the number of apologies he'd ever offered at Hogwarts on the fingers of one hand, and there had always been duress involved. After a thoughtful pause, Dumbledore said:

"I understand that condolences are in order? Your mother - ?"

Draco found that he had not been prepared for the effect that this had upon him. Kindness had never been a big feature of the Malfoy approach to child rearing, and he had always considered it a weakness in Dumbledore; but this particular subject was still raw, and the tiny inflection of sympathy in Dumbledore's voice sliced right through all his careful layers of dignity. Draco nodded sharply and turned away, concentrating upon mastering his breathing and keeping tears at bay. Lucius would have been disgusted at his weakness.

After what seemed like a very long time he managed to say: "Yes," with a modicum of composure. "Thank you," he added carefully, as an after thought.

"I see. I'm sorry."

Draco was not, under any circumstances, going to start his career as a turncoat by blubbering all over Albus Dumbledore. He drew in a deep breath and turned around to face the wizard. "I brought some of my father's papers. They might not be any use - I couldn't make head nor tail of them myself, but it was the best I could do and I thought they might be helpful. I was in rather a hurry, once I found the boots. Um. But I do understand that you'll have some - reservations - about trusting me. Veritaserum," said Draco decisively. "I think you should question me under Veritaserum. Then you'll know the truth. I was at Lucius's right hand in dozens of meetings with Voldemort." His voice faltered under Dumbledore’s gaze, and he bit his lip. "Or – well, not dozens, exactly, but some. Four or five. I mean, I'm not privy to all their secrets and I never did work out where his HQ actually was, but I heard a lot of things that should be helpful."

"Hmm. Veritaserum, I must confess, is precisely what I was about to suggest, inhospitable though it undoubtedly is. You understand my position, Mr Malfoy? It does seem somewhat - unlikely - that you should have managed to escape from Voldemort unharmed." Dumbledore frowned. "How did you get here, by the way? Apparating into the school grounds is impossible - surely you didn't fly all the way here from Malfoy Manor?" Draco cracked a small smile.

"Seven-League Boots," he said, sticking out his one shod foot by way of illustration. "They were my grandfather's; I don't think Lucius even knew my mother had them. I'd forgotten all about them myself, and then I was looking through her things after - and - well. It seemed like the only way out." He stared down at the tip of one soggy sock. "The other one's lying somewhere in the Forbidden Forest," he added a little crossly. "If Hagrid's mutt hasn't eaten it by now. My broom's still back at the Manor."

Draco was really going to miss his broom. Not that he envisioned a glittering return to his Quidditch career - the ranks of Slytherins at Hogwarts were so depleted that he very much doubted they could muster a full team by this point. Still, Draco was good at flying and he enjoyed it very much.

It struck him then, quite forcibly, that he had nothing left to his name but the hastily-packed valise and a possibly-half-eaten pair of elderly Seven-League Boots. A quick glance around revealed that Hagrid had picked up the valise when he slung Draco over his shoulder, but of the boot there was no sign. Draco sighed. He had no broom, no pocket money, no toothbrush, not even one pair of normal shoes to his name. The Weasleys had more going for them than he did right now. He couldn't remember ever feeling so thoroughly vulnerable and alone, and it must have shown on his face because Dumbledore's hand was suddenly on his shoulder. To Draco's considerable embarrassment he experienced a sudden urge to let Dumbledore pat him on the back and tell him reassuring lies about everything being all right. He didn't, of course, because he had already had quite enough humiliation for one morning, but after one moment of bristling resentment he found himself unexpectedly wanting not to let Dumbledore down. He lifted one hand shakily and raked it through his dishevelled hair in a futile attempt to make himself more presentable, and was startled by Dumledore's sudden hissing intake of breath.

"I see," said the headmaster quietly. He was looking at Draco's exposed forearm. Draco lowered his hand at once and felt his sleeve slide back down over his skin too late. The Dark Mark stung as soon as he thought about it. "Veritaserum, then," added Dumbledore after a moment, his expression unreadable. Draco felt sick. "But first I think that you could do with some sleep. Perhaps the Infirmary would be the most suitable place, rather than disturbing the rest of your House?" Draco stared at him. "Yes, I think perhaps that would be the wisest course for the moment. I'll wake Madam Pomfrey. Get some rest, and when you wake up we'll see about getting you a hot bath, some clean clothes and a full stomach. And then you can reacquaint yourself with the remaining members of Slytherin, and you can explain to me quite how you came to have this -- change of heart."

Draco was torn again between despising the man's gullibility (because, after all, he could have been there for nefarious purposes, and it almost rankled that Dumbledore had decided he was harmless) and wanting to do something spectacular to prove that the faith was deserved. A moment later it struck him that Dumbledore would certainly be monitoring his every move between now and the consumption of Veritaserum, but he still appreciated the delicacy with which the matter was being handled. It was unlooked for.

"In the meanwhile we can't have you wandering around unshod or you'll catch your death of cold."

Draco looked down at his feet and found he was wearing thick, warm, and, above all, dry woollen socks in Slytherin colours. Dumbledore snapped his fingers and a gleaming pair of new and blessedly unmagical-looking boots appeared on the floor between them.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly, and Dumbledore smiled.

"Not at all. It's a poor exchange - I'm afraid that I shall be keeping hold of your bag for the moment, Mr Malfoy, wand and all; it is entirely possible that you or it might be intended as a Trojan horse, whether you know it or not. We shall need to run some thorough tests on the items to assure ourselves of their safety." And on me, thought Draco resignedly, and wondered whether there was any way that a person could remove Voldemort's mark from their body. But at least he was going to get some sleep first, which was more than he had any right to expect. "I'm sorry about this, but you will appreciate the necessity. Now take yourself off to the Infirmary."

"Yes sir," said Draco, and did.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco slammed into wakefulness from another dream of falling, and for several baffling seconds he had absolutely no idea where or when he was. Then his surroundings resolved themselves into the familiarity of the Infirmary with autumn sunlight streaming through the open windows, and for a pleasant moment he assumed that he must have received another Quidditch injury, and tried to recall whom they had been playing, and whether he had managed to beat Potter. And then recent history came rushing back to him in all its nauseating glory. He groaned.

"You're awake, then."

Draco sat up. Professor Snape was leaning against the far wall and watching him from beneath half-lowered lids with an expression that would have made a sphinx seem unambiguous. It was only then that it occurred to Draco that he still did not know who all of Voldemort's Death Eaters were, and that there was every possibility that Snape was among them. He was never, he realised with a sinking heart, going to cut it as a chess player. Certainly the Dark Lord had some way of second guessing Dumbledore very effectively, but for some reason it had simply never once occurred to Draco that there might be a spy in place at Hogwarts. He swallowed hard and mustered a brittle sneer.

"So it would appear. Am I under house arrest?"

"Not at all. Professor Dumbledore was simply concerned for your well being, as were we all." Snape's smile didn't reach his eyes. The last time he had seen the professor it had never occurred to Draco to fear the man, but all the rules were different now and he was just starting to realise how thoroughly out of his depth he really was. There would be no Crabbe and Goyle to guard his back, no reliance on his family's prestige or his father's connections. If Snape were genuinely on Dumbledore's side he would have every reason to be suspicious of Draco, but if he were working for Voldemort then life was about to get very interesting indeed. Damn.

"I'm feeling absolutely peachy," said Draco with his sweetest smile. "But thank you for worrying. Now, if you wouldn't mind I'd very much like to have a bath. Unless there was something specific you wanted to talk to me about? Does Professor Dumbledore want me to submit to Veritaserum testing right away? I understood that I would be able to get some rest and a wash first, but if he wants - ?"

"No hurry, Mr Malfoy," said Snape, pushing away from the wall with his shoulders and walking slowly to the end of the bed. "When the Headmaster desires your presence he will undoubtedly send someone to get you. In the meanwhile rise, bathe, and eat. You will find clean clothes and a towel on the chair. I believe," he added, glancing pointedly at Draco's pale chest, "that Madam Pomfrey provided clean pyjamas under your pillow, had you bothered to investigate. Professor Dumbledore suggests you keep them. Perhaps, once you are dressed, you would care to return to Slytherin and make yourself at home in your old room. The password, by the way, is Circe."

"Circe. Right. Thank you, Professor."

"No doubt you will be disappointed to realise that you have now missed all today's lessons; you have a great deal of catching up to do." Professor Snape frowned. "And I fear that you will find the House of Slytherin sadly depleted, Mr Malfoy, and unlikely to welcome you with open arms. "

"Yes. I rather thought as much."

 

* * *

 

"Circe."

The guardian portrait looked about as astonished as paint could get.

"We didn't expect to see you again in a hurry," announced the picture as the entrance to the Slytherin common room creaked open. Draco smiled.

"Good. I do so hate living up to people's expectations."

He stepped over the threshold and a moment later he was in the deserted room. Draco paused, momentarily startled by the silence. At this hour there would usually have been dozens of people milling around: Pansy Parkinson holding court in one corner; card games flourishing with sweets or cigarettes or sickles passing from player to player; wide-eyed first years being relieved of their rarest chocolate frog cards; couples forming and dissolving and bitching and laughing and forming afresh. Life in Slytherin had been wonderfully predictable, and Draco had never realised how much he had appreciated the safety of that cosy, incestuous, backbiting little world until he saw with his own eyes that it was truly gone. The hearth was cold. The chairs were all empty. It was a thoroughly dismal sight, and it brought home to him more than anything else just how much things had changed. There was no going back.

"Thomas, did you find - oh!" Esme Millington came barrelling in through one of the doors, presumably having heard the creak of the picture frame swinging back. It spoke volumes that the place was quiet enough for the creak to have been heard, and so scarcely populated that she had been sure she knew who it must be. "Malfoy?" Esme exclaimed incredulously. Her freckled brow furrowed into a highly unflattering expression as she surveyed him and Draco bridled under her gaze. Bugger this for a game of soldiers. Esme had been beneath his notice for years and, come what may, Draco had no intention of crawling around after the approval of the flotsam and jetsam of his own House.

"Still as observant as ever, Esme," he drawled. "I'm astonished that the Ministry haven't seconded your services by now. They could do with spies of your calibre."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm asking myself that very question. This place is a morgue."

Esme crossed her arms across her narrow chest and scowled. She seemed considerably less cowed than she ought to be.

"Does Professor Dumbledore know you're here?" she asked. Draco rolled his eyes.

"No, Esme. I broke in unnoticed, miraculously evaded all the alarms and wards and charms that the combined might of Dumbledore and all his cronies have built up around this place and happened to stumble across the right password to get through the door on my very first shot." She stared at him blankly. "Of course Dumbledore knows, you prat. I've seen the light, haven't I? The scales have fallen from my eyes, and all that clichéd rubbish. I'm taking a stand for truth, justice, bunny rabbits and baby Muggles. The prodigal returned. Bring out the fatted calf. Did you miss me?"

"No," Esme said flatly. She turned on her heel and stalked back through the door, leaving Draco alone once more.

"That went well," said Draco under his breath. He bit his lip and then headed off to his old dormitory.

* * *

Draco perched on the edge of his bed and surveyed his empty kingdom ruefully. Certainly he had complained about having to share a room in the past, and he wasn't about to start pining for the unmelodious sound of Goyle's snoring, but there was still something thoroughly depressing about all the unoccupied beds. Since he had burned his familial bridges rather spectacularly it might not be a bad idea to start thinking about a new motto, and 'Be careful what you wish for,' was starting to seem singularly appropriate. As and when Dumbledore returned his possessions to him Draco would be able to make the place look slightly less impersonal, but it was still going to be hideously empty.

On the plus side, of course, he now had a vast amount of space in which to host the most outrageous of bacchanalian revels, should he be so inclined. On the minus side, all the people whom he would have once invited to said revels were now either dead or else falling over one another to distance themselves from him, either due to his original support of Voldemort or to his subsequent act of rebellion. Draco Malfoy, he rather suspected, was not going to be a name on many people's Christmas card lists this year.

Through the half-open door he could faintly hear a few other Slytherins nattering away, and he caught the sound of his own name bandied about several times. Esme had evidently spread the word, but they weren't in any rush to welcome him back. Draco's smile twisted. He hadn't expected the Gryffindors to be thrilled by his return, but Draco had rather harboured the hope that the House of Slytherin might be a little different. In retrospect, this had been foolishness of the first order. Possibly he might have got off on the wrong foot with Esme Millington, but Draco was damned if he was going to apologise for his presence. He had not been entirely prepared for the experience of being a pariah in his own dormitory, but life was full of surprises and this was one he could handle. He was, however, starting to feel more than a little pissed off.

Abruptly, and for no very good reason, Draco had a visceral conviction that he was being watched. He turned round, but the room was empty. A flicker of colour shifting on the edge of his peripheral vision made the fine hairs on the back of Draco's neck stand on end, but when he looked there was nothing there. Still he found himself irrationally convinced that he was not, in fact, alone in the room. He shivered


	4. Chapter 4

"I can't believe that Dumbledore's actually falling for this," muttered Harry rebelliously for the third time in as many minutes. He speared a roast potato and glared across the fragrant air of the Great Hall at Draco Malfoy: prodigal pupil, smug git and all-round bane of Harry's existence. Even without the shock of white-blond hair to distinguish him from his peers, Malfoy would have been instantly identifiable simply because the rest of the Slytherins had put as much space between him and them as possible. Which was interesting. Since a good three quarters of the students in this particular House had been withdrawn from Hogwarts over the course of the past year, Malfoy was almost comically isolated at one end of the long table, but he seemed entirely unconcerned by his newfound status as House Leper. Harry glared at Draco's back, unaccountably irritated by the ramrod-straight line of the boy's spine.

At Harry's side, Ron, speechless with righteous indignation (and with half-chewed Toad-in-the-hole), nodded emphatically.

"Mmph-phnff," he said with feeling. Harry decided to take this as an affirmative.

"I mean, he's quite blatantly here to spy for Voldemort."

"Harry!" protested Ron a short gulp later, in a pained tone.

"What? Oh, right. Sorry." Harry didn't sound at all chastened. "I mean to spy for 'You-know-who.' Sorry, Ron."

" 'Sokay," said Ron with resignation. "But, yeah - wild dragons wouldn't get me to let the little worm back in here. What on earth is Dumbledore thinking?"

"Beats me."

They both glared at the oblivious form of Draco Malfoy. Hermione rolled her eyes. Their golden plates vanished along with the ravaged platters bearing the remnants of the main courses. A moment later clean bowls arrived, accompanied by a veritable platoon of deserts. Ron's scowl deepened as he watched Malfoy picking and choosing from his own personal array of platters and bowls. The Slytherins at the other end of the table continued to ignore him quite pointedly.

"He might not be spying for You-know-who," said Hermione, scooping treacle sponge onto her plate with all the fervour of a dentist's daughter. Ron made an incredulous noise.

"Come on, Hermione - this is Malfoy. He's supposed to be at Durmstrang, isn't he? Pulled out of the school because his rotten old dad is a closet Death Eater and Hogwarts 'isn't an appropriate environment'. And now suddenly, out of the blue, here he is again. Well I, for one, can't believe that Lucius Malfoy has had a sudden change of heart. Of course he's here to spy for them." Ron paused in the middle of building a wobbly trifle mountain in his bowl, and a delighted expression spread over his freckled face. "Unless they chucked him out of Durmstrang. Ooh, wouldn't that be something? Malfoy expelled - I'd love that." Harry met his eye and they both burst out laughing.

"He didn't go to Durmstrang," Hermione said without thinking. "Goyle went, and Pansy, and about half of Slytherin. But Malfoy never did go to Durmstrang." Ron's laughter dried up immediately. He stared at her and after one embarrassed glance from beneath her lashes Hermione fixed her attention on the treacle sponge. "Harry, could you pass the custard?" she asked quietly.

"You've been writing to him," said Ron accusingly, not taking his eyes off her face. Harry was surprised to notice that Ron had gone very pale, whilst Hermione's cheeks were growing redder by the moment.

"Don't be daft, Ron. Of course she hasn't been writing to Malfoy. Have you?"

"No," agreed Hermione. She seemed to be tremendously interested in the treacle pudding all of a sudden.

"Not Malfoy - Krum," said Ron in a very tight voice. "You've been writing to him again, haven't you?"

In the little pause that followed, Harry could have sworn that the temperature dropped. Around them the rest of the Gryffindors continued to chatter away cheerfully about the usual things: the Chudley Cannons' recent victory against the Brentford Bats; the new flavour of Sherbet Snakes at Honeydukes; the latest rumours about Voldemort's whereabouts. The little pool of frigid silence surrounding Ron and Hermione went unnoticed. Harry took a mouthful of chocolate fudge cake and looked anxiously from one to the other.

"I don't see why it's any business of yours who I write to in my spare time," said Hermione carefully. She didn't sound particularly happy, but backing down was one of the few things she didn't excel at. "Viktor is my friend."

"Hermione, he's one of them," yelled Ron. Heads turned. Ron lowered his voice, but he was clearly outraged. Harry, at a loss, bit his lip and then took another mouthful of chocolate cake. "He's on You-know-who's side," said Ron furiously. "He's a Durmstrang, damn it - they're bad news. He's using you. I can't believe you'd fall for this! They're the enemy."

"They aren't the enemy, Ron - I can't believe you could be so narrow-minded. It's a whole school, for heaven's sakes - they aren't all bad. I know their curriculum covers the Dark Arts, but you can't tar them all with the same brush." Hermione sounded every bit as angry as Ron. The spoon in her hand was shaking so much that the custard slopped out of it, and after a moment she set it down very carefully in the bowl, then crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Don't insult me. I'm not an idiot. Viktor is my friend and I trust him, but that doesn't mean that I'm not careful about what information I pass on. There's nothing that anyone could use to help Voldemort in any of my letters. Nothing."

"Um. Could you pass me the trifle, Ron?" asked Harry hesitantly, when the frosty silence became too much to bear. Ron pushed the bowl over to Harry without taking his eyes off Hermione. So much for that diversionary tactic. Harry took a small spoonful of trifle out of the bowl and licked it unhappily. It wasn't even as if Ron and Hermione were actually dating, he reflected. As far as Harry was aware, Ron had never asked her out, or tried for a snog, or done a damned thing about the torch he was carrying.

"Excuse me, Harry," said Hermione, slithering out of her seat. Her whole body was stiff with anger. "I've got an essay to write. See you later." She didn't glance at Ron.

"Can you believe she's writing to Krum?" asked Ron, staring after her.

"Ron, you should just ask her out," said Harry. He felt suddenly tired.

"What? I don't - I mean - I've never - what do you - why - I," Ron spluttered.

"Ron, come off it. You two are always - I mean, it's like some bad romance novel, with the longing glances and the jealousy and the meaningful pauses and everything. You should ask her out. Cho thinks Hermione likes you. I think Hermione likes you. I know you like her. Ask her out."

Ron stared at him. He didn't look especially grateful for this insight.

"I don't know what you mean," said Ron. His face was crimson. "And I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my business."

"Ron, don't be like that. I just meant -"

"Shut. Up," hissed Ron. "I don't need dating advice from Mr I've-got-a-girlfriend Potter. Great. Good for you. I'm glad you and Cho are so damned happy. Hip hip hooray. But I'm telling you, Hermione's just a friend. She doesn't think about me like that. I'm just worried about her writing to that, that - " he scrabbled around for a suitably virulent epithet and finally said: "Durmstrang" in a withering tone.

But Ron did not deny, Harry noted automatically, that he thought of Hermione "like that".

"Sorry. I just thought - "

"Well, don't. God! Look, I've got to go. I'll see you later."

Harry stared blankly down at his empty plate and tried to remember quite how all this had started.

A flicker of movement caught his eye and he glanced up to see candlelight bouncing off hair the colour of whipped cream as a slender figure stepped away from the Slytherin table and headed alone out of the Great Hall.

* * *

 

The meandering corridors that led to the Slytherin rooms were far quieter these days. Draco's footsteps echoed a little too loudly, and he found himself trying to modify his stride in order to deaden the noise. It was difficult to get into the habit of stealth after a whole lifetime devoted to swaggering with panache, but this was the very least of the adaptations Draco had found himself obliged to make in recent months. He had always had reasonably good self-preservation instincts - not for Draco Malfoy any ridiculous Gryffindor machismo in the face of pointy-toothed monsters - but it was only now that he was coming to understand what a very dangerous place the world really was. His mouth twisted into a self deprecating smile as he cautiously skirted around a suit of armour. This was undoubtedly the single safest place he could possibly be at present, and yet he was still as wary as any of his mother's highly strung cats. The sheer number of nooks and crannies in Hogwarts that could hide a crouching enemy still astonished him. During his first five years at the school Draco had often felt irritated and bored, and occasionally intimidated, but he had never been conscious of his own vulnerability in the way that he was these days. Now he found himself jumping at shadows, with his wand hand a-twitch and a curse on the tip of his tongue.

It was a strange sensation, being back at school. This was perhaps how it felt to be a ghost, wandering through the same old rooms and corridors and missing the faces that should surround you. Odd. He thought fleetingly about the day that Lucius bore him away from school some eight months ago and remembered the high spirits with which he had left, secure in the certainty that greatness was just around the corner. Goyle and Crabbe had hung out of the windows and waved and grinned like mad, shouting pro-Voldemort slogans with a fine disregard for the school rules. They had all been unconscionably naïve.

He bit his lip. It wasn't, Draco told himself firmly, that he had ever cared for either Goyle or Crabbe all that much, but he had been comfortably accustomed to their presence. Hogwarts had always been associated in his mind with the security of having his own coterie of muscle-bound hangers on. Granted Messrs Crabbe and Goyle had never been particularly noted for the sparkling quality of their repartee, but when it came to unquestioning loyalty, or to cheerfully doing unpleasant jobs on one's behalf, there was really no beating them. He had always enjoyed having his own minions; in fact Draco could perfectly understand Voldemort's enthusiasm for accruing unswervingly loyal followers. (For that matter, he could understand the Dark Lord's desire to rule the known universe, enslave or obliterate Mugglekind, and crush teddy bears and fluffy kittens underfoot. Noble aims all. One would have thought.)

Goyle's laboriously penned letters from Durmstrang had dwindled over the months, but Draco had always been delighted to see the little barn owl arriving with a new epistle. He very much doubted, however, that any more letters would be forthcoming in the foreseeable future. Nobody in their right mind wanted an apostate as their pen pal. Draco was almost entirely sure that Vincent was as dead as Narcissa, and for the same blood rite; evidently younger sons and wives were more expendable to Voldemort's followers than were their heirs. Not for the first time, Draco thanked his lucky stars that he was an only child.

He sniffed; he seemed to be developing allergies of late. Undoubtedly due to the dust. The bloody house elves probably thought they were too good to clean the corridors thanks to that wretched Granger creature. He rubbed one prickly eye with the heel of his hand and sniffed crossly.

"Draco Malfoy?"

Draco spun around and came within a hair's breadth of hurling an impotent curse at the Bloody Baron. He blinked, raking the hair out of his eyes with one hand in a frayed attempt at nonchalance, and told himself to calm down. Of course he hadn't heard anyone following him. One didn't hear ghosts materialising through walls. His heart, nevertheless, was banging almost painfully against his ribcage.

"Yes?"

"Professor Dumbledore wants to see you," announced the Baron, in the tone of one who held very strong feelings about being used as a messenger boy. "Now."


	5. Chapter 5

They didn't tie him to the chair. For some reason Draco had almost been expecting something a little more medieval, something a little more reminiscent of Voldemort's questioning technique. Which was silly, of course; Dumbledore was no Dark Lord. Voldemort's sense of the theatrical made Lucius Malfoy seem positively dull - and when it came to questioning prisoners, he had a way of taking 'overkill' quite literally. Dumbledore, however, managed to make the process of questioning a potential spy feel like a tea party. An awkward and slightly intimidating tea party, granted, but a tea party nevertheless.

Draco glanced across the laden table at the two professors, and wished that they could stop beating about the bush. Professor McGonagall sipped pale tea from a small china cup with the same unflappable demeanour that she generally wore, but Draco suspected that she too wished the headmaster would just get on with it.

"More tea, Mr Malfoy?"

"No," said Draco. His voice sounded too harsh in the quiet of the study. He bit his lip and tried again. "No thank you, I mean."

"Not fond of the Oolong? I'm not too sure about it myself. Somehow it doesn't really seem like tea if it isn't served with milk and sugar, but Professor McGonagall is trying to encourage me to try new things. Still, not your cup of tea either, I gather?"

Draco stared at him.

"Cup of tea!" exclaimed Dumbledore delightedly a moment later, with an expression of childish rapture. "Why, it's a sort of joke, Mr Malfoy."

"Yes," Draco agreed helplessly. It was probably his imagination, but when his eyes met those of Professor McGonagall he fancied he saw something like horrified sympathy in them.

"Professor, the Oolong is fine, really, I'm just not very thirsty. I thought we were going to…? I mean, tea, biscuits, all this is very, ah, kind, but…?"

"The Veritaserum testing. Yes. Well, I was just waiting for - ah! Here he is!"

The dark figure was unmistakable. Draco greeted the arrival of Professor Snape with decidedly mixed feelings. Snape had, after all, always been fast friends with Lucius. The way he looked at Draco still set off a whole host of alarm bells.

"Severus, glad you could make it - I was beginning to worry. Do sit down. Cup of tea? It's Oolong. Minerva's idea, but it's not too bad really. A little like scented dishwater. "

"No thank you, headmaster."

"Bourbon cream? They're a Muggle delicacy – young Arthur Weasley swears by them." Professor Snape's expression spoke volumes about his feelings in regards to the platter of biscuits which obediently floated towards him at this point, but he contented himself with a sharp shake of the head.

"No. Thank you."

"No? Very well. I suppose we had best begin. Mr Malfoy, would you be so kind as to pass me your cup?" Draco duly handed the little cup to Dumbledore. It was half empty. "Still half full? Good, good. Professor Snape, if you wouldn't mind?" The professor passed a small vial across the table and Dumbledore's fingers closed carefully around it. "Thank you. One moment." A couple of moments later he passed the cup back to Draco and looked at him expectantly. "Shouldn't taste too bad in the tea, Mr Malfoy, but if you want to add a sugar cube or two, be my guest, dear boy. Swallow it all down at once."

The china cup felt tiny in his hand, its surface barely blood-warm. There was really no point in adding sugar. Draco knocked the liquid back in one swift move and waited for it to take effect.

Lucius had cast Imperius on his son several times - more to prove a point than because he considered it necessary. (Had Lucius considered casting Imperius to be actually necessary, it was highly unlikely that Draco would still be in possession of a pulse. Absolute and unquestioning loyalty was something that Lucius expected at all times; nevertheless, Draco had been a very temperamental toddler and in those days Lucius had found Imperius to be a very effective way of disciplining him.) It was not an experience Draco cared to repeat, and he had a horror of the effects of Veritaserum. Nevertheless, submitting to it was clearly the most logical course of action, under the circumstances.

"What colour is this teacup, Mr Malfoy?"

"Green," Draco said at once. "Pale green, decorated with a pattern of stylised white bumblebees." He blinked, and half-raised one hand to his mouth. Dumbledore smiled.

"Thank you. It's an easy enough business, you see. Now, perhaps you can tell me why you are here?"

 

* * *

 

It was with inexpressible relief that Draco stepped down from Dumbledore's Phoenix-carved staircase out into the tranquillity of the corridor. The Veritaserum testing had been considerably less than pleasant, and it was made worse by the faint and unfamiliar suspicion that Professor Snape was not to be trusted. Unfortunately Professor Dumbledore - and it seemed impossible now that Draco had ever fallen for the bumbling old duffer routine - had picked up on his unease immediately and had asked about it, so if Severus Snape were in fact working for Voldemort, he now knew that Draco was on to him. Fabulous. On the other hand, if Draco's suspicions were unfounded, he had just succeeded in insulting his only potential ally.

Whether because of his suspicions about Professor Snape or out of squeamishness at being so exposed before anyone, Draco had instinctively balked at the prospect of pouring his thoughts into the penseive, and Dumbledore, surprisingly, had not pressed the issue at this time. The effects of the Veritaserum had been unpleasant enough; Draco was in no hurry to give up his autonomy again any time in the foreseeable future, and the idea of someone being able to walk undetected through his memories at their leisure made him shudder.

The corridor was blessedly empty. Draco hefted the unfamiliar weight of the borrowed wand cautiously in one hand and tried a quick spell. The bread roll he summoned from the kitchens showed no signs of turning into a hobgoblin or bursting into song, and when he took a tentative nibble of one corner it tasted reassuringly bread-like. Granted the strip of polished maple didn't feel as natural as using his own wand, but it was serviceable enough. Newer and less worn-in-feeling, somehow; in fact it might even be a superior specimen, to be perfectly honest, but Draco would still have preferred his own wand any day of the week.

His own wand, however, was being stripped down and checked thoroughly for any hidden curses; Dumbledore had made it clear that this in no way reflected upon Draco's trustworthiness, but rather upon the possibility that Draco had been duped into running away and his wand tampered with in some way. One of the more disquieting results of the past half hour of intensive questioning was that Draco found himself wondering whether he could actually trust his own memories. He had no idea how he would know if he had been the victim of a memory charm; it had all seemed difficult and daring at the time, but now that he came to reflect upon it, it was indeed surprising that he could have outsmarted the combined might of Lucius and Voldemort and escaped with comparative ease. Was Lucius really that careless? The possibility that he was a pawn in some elaborate game of strategy was frankly appalling, but Draco could not rid himself of the notion now that it had occurred to him. He comforted himself with the thought that surely, were that the case, Dumbledore would have found traces of the spell. But then if Snape were a spy, perhaps Dumbledore knew; and if he knew, perhaps he was trying to deceive Voldemort into thinking his deception had worked. It was like looking into a mirror image of a mirror image, and getting lost in the infinite reflections.

Draco's head was spinning. Life never used to be this complicated.

Automatically his feet took him towards Slytherin, but when he reached the picture he found himself balking unexpectedly. Dumbledore had thanked him and, as he presented Draco with a temporary wand, strongly recommended he get some rest. The prospect of encountering any of his fellow Slytherins at this point, however, was decidedly unappealing. The guardian portrait glared at him beadily. It appeared to be engaged in a game of strip poker with several giggling nymphs and milkmaids from an Arcadian landscape down the corridor.

"Well? Are you coming in?" it asked impatiently. Draco made up his mind.

"No," he said. He was tired, but he felt oddly bruised and raw and unwilling to contend with the smug and unfriendly remnants of his House. He decided, on a whim, to go for a quiet walk instead; perhaps he could track down his grandfather's missing Boot in the process. It would be a good opportunity to get the hang of his new wand.

 

* * *

 

Casting a dowsing spell keyed in to the Boot was simple enough even with a new wand, since the object in question had been in contact with his body. Draco made his way out into the chilly evening with the wand held loosely in his right hand. He shivered, and after a moment muttered a quick insulation spell. The effect was instantaneous and very welcome, and from that point on the biting wind that tore brittle leaves from branches and whipped his robes around his ankles had no effect on the warmth of Draco's skin. Keeping his grip on the wand loose enough to let the dowsing work was difficult in this weather, though, and very soon Draco found himself wishing he'd left well enough alone and braved the Slytherin common room instead.

Predictably enough, the wand led him to Hagrid's hut rather than to the clearing where he had left his footwear. Draco stopped short some yards away and glared at the buttery light that spilled from the rough windows. Blast the fellow; Draco had absolutely no desire to see Hagrid at this point, or indeed at any point, come to that. He considered the matter, and then smiled. It was, he realised, actually quite simple.  
"Accio Boot," said Draco, flicking his wand at the hut. He waited, and was surprised to feel something like resistance. Draco concentrated his powers and repeated the spell in a firmer tone, slashing the air purposefully with the maple.

A moment later there was a thump against the door of the hut. Draco frowned. The door rattled on its hinges. Another thump, and another, and then the door burst open and to Draco's mixed horror and amusement Hagrid's dog came sliding out across the threshold with its jaws firmly clamped around Draco's missing Boot. All four paws were braced against the ground and the creature's dumb face wore an expression of utter astonishment. Unsurprisingly, Hagrid was hard on the mutt's heels. Also unsurprisingly, Hagrid was trailed by an equally indignant Harry Potter, with the Weasley boy inevitable as a shadow behind him. Draco sighed. So much for avoiding any further contact with the hoi polloi this evening.

"Fang!" yelled Hagrid as he galumphed after his dog. "Where are yer goin'? What's doin' this to - Malfoy! I might've known yer were up to yer tricks. What d'yer think yer doin' to Fang, yer young demon?"

"Keep your beard on," said Draco in a tone of resignation. "How was I to know that the wretched creature was chewing on one of my possessions? I simply cast Accio to find my grandfather's Boot." The words left his mouth without any conscious volition involved, and he realised that the wretched Veritaserum was still in effect. Draco felt a thoroughly unpleasant little lurch at the prospect of being unable to wholly govern his tongue in the presence of such as these. It was demeaning.

"Typical. Picking on dumb animals now, Malfoy?" Potter was glowering at him in his inimitably Potterish way.

"No. It was an accident," he said automatically, and could have bitten off his tongue. Not so much as a sneer, not a trace of an insult; just the facts. And Potter had gifted him with such a splendid straight line too. This truly was a vile potion, and he had been stupid to venture out in public before it had wholly worn away. "Call it off," Draco said hurriedly to Hagrid, frustration blazing behind his eyes. "Get it to release my Boot and I'll go. I wasn't trying to hurt your bloody dog. Although I sincerely hope the next thing it savages is poisoned," he added with more honesty than wisdom. "Will you look at the mess it's made? Ugly great brute."

"Don't you listen to 'im, sweet'eart," exclaimed Hagrid, kneeling to fondle Fang's ears reassuringly while he glared at Draco. "You bite down 'ard on that smelly old boot." Fang's undignified progress had halted at Draco's feet, which left Draco in the unenviable position of standing with several hundred pounds of toothily-snarling dog a few inches from his tender skin. He doubted that the insulation charm was proof against dog bites.

"I demand that you make the beast release my Boot this instant," said Draco, conscious that he looked and sounded ridiculous but unable to think of any alternative short of trying to Avada Kedavra them all on the spot. Which was, admittedly, becoming more tempting by the moment, but would be a terrible waste of a perfectly good new leaf. Weasley started to laugh.

"He looks like Cinderella," Ron Weasley gasped, clutching at Potter's forearm. Potter stared at Draco and then began to laugh in his turn. "And Hagrid's Prince Charming."

"I do not. He does not. Give me my Boot!"

" 'Ere, what are you talkin' about? Prince Charmin', am I?" Hagrid looked uncertain whether to take this as a compliment. Draco was ready to spit blood.

"Give. Me. My. Boot. Back," he hissed. "Now."

"All right then, Cinders," said Hagrid, evidently deciding that it was all highly amusing after all. "Let go, Fang. Let go. There's a good dog. Did the nasty man 'urt oo? Did 'e?" The boot shot out of Fang's mouth and landed in Draco's hand with a repulsively wet smack. He shuddered, pinched one slender bootstrap between finger and thumb and held the Boot at arm's length, then turned his back on the Gryffindors and their uncouth friend. He wanted to scrub his hand with bleach. It had been a very trying day.

"Night night, Cinderella," called Weasley.

"That must make you two the Ugly Sisters, then, I take it?" Draco called over his shoulder, noting that the potion's effects were weak enough now to let him use rhetoric. "Always worrying about your balls."

* * *

 

Draco dropped the sticky boot as soon as he crossed the threshold, and then collapsed rather spectacularly face-down onto the nearest bed. He yawned into the covers. A deep bubble bath, he reflected, would be just the ticket right about now, if only he could muster the energy to get up and find a towel. And find a bathroom. And run a bath. In fact, the only problem with this scenario was that Draco felt thoroughly disinclined to move a single muscle for the foreseeable future. Possibly ever again.

"Ahem."

It was a humble and apologetic little sound. Draco lay very still, and weighed up the likelihood that either Lucius or Voldemort would announce their presence thus.

"Go away," he said indistinctly, without opening his eyes. "Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

"Is Master Draco sure?" The voice was very faintly familiar, but it didn't set off any alarm bells in his head. Draco stayed where he was.

"Yes. Sod off, whoever you are. I'm in no mood for - do I smell hot chocolate?"

Energy that Draco had not suspected he possessed animated his weary limbs, and a moment later he was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed with a steaming mug cradled in his hands. His benefactor was, unaccountably, a house elf.

Draco stared at it. It stared at him. He swallowed a wonderful mouthful of hot chocolate, and after a little while a thoroughly outrageous notion occurred to him.

"Thank you," he said experimentally. It felt like talking to a lampshade. The house elf looked gratifyingly shocked, and abruptly burst into tears. This was not precisely the response Draco had expected, and he made a mental note not to overdo this courtesy thing.

"Master Draco! Never did I imagine I would hear such words from Master Draco's lips! Is it true, then? Master Draco has run away too?"

Draco stared at the creature in outright astonishment. This was too extraordinary to be insulting. Who would have supposed that house elves gossiped about their betters? And what in the world was the creature wearing?

"Do I know - oh. You're that house elf, aren't you? The one father was tricked into freeing." He frowned. "Nobby? Bobby?"

"Dobby!" The house elf sounded ecstatic. "Master Draco remembers Dobby? Dobby used to help Nurse change Master Draco's nappy when he was a tiny little wizardling, and bring him his rusks, and read to him from his story book and - "

"Good grief! Stop it at once!" spluttered Draco, aghast. "I didn't - I - when - I - this is most peculiar," he finished weakly. They stared at one another some more.

So it had come to this: the scion of the Malfoys reduced to spending his evenings socialising with a house elf. Lucius would have been rendered speechless with horror, and perversely this thought cheered Draco up no end. "If you ever tell anyone about the nappy or the story book I shall have to kill you," he said conversationally, lest there be any doubt on that score. Dobby looked quite unflapped by this remark, and it struck Draco that he sounded disconcertingly like his father. He banished the thought at once. "So you used to live at the Manor. With me. And with - with us." The house elf nodded. Draco sipped the chocolate thoughtfully. "I thought house elves liked - ah - house elfing?" Which wasn't entirely true. Draco had never given the matter a moment's consideration, but as far as he was aware the general consensus was that the ugly little things were delighted to clean up. "Why did you want to run away?"

"Master Draco knows," said Dobby. "Master Lucius was not," its voice trembled, and it sounded scandalised by its own daring. "Not kind. Not a good master." Unexpectedly, Draco felt slightly sick.

"Not kind. Well. No. Water is not dry, black is not white, Voldemort is not dead and Lucius is not kind. That was all?"

"Yes. Well - and Harry Potter, sir. " Draco scowled.

"Potter?"

"Master Lucius wanted to kill Harry Potter, sir. Dobby could not let that happen. Dobby had to warn Harry Potter, sir."

"I see." Draco thought about it, and found that, irritating though Potter unquestionably was, he couldn't wish death on him. He couldn't honestly wish death on anyone now that he had seen it up close and personal and had some idea of what it actually meant. "Fair enough then." He yawned again. The mug was empty.

"Well, this has been - unexpected. Interesting. Ah. Thank you for the drink." He handed the cup back to the house elf and bit his lip. "Perhaps," Draco added casually, studying the embroidery on the bed cover, "Perhaps you might come back some evening? To talk about - about old times?" The house elf beamed.

"Dobby would be honoured, sir. Dobby has heard about Master Draco's bravery. Dobby will come again tomorrow, if Master Draco wishes it. With cake."

"If you feel like it," said Draco nonchalantly. "Whatever. Cake is always good."

"Master Draco likes chocolate éclairs. Dobby knows."

The house elf disapparated. Draco picked up his toothbrush and flannel and headed to the bathroom, trying not to grin. Somebody knew what his favourite pastry was, and if that somebody was a house elf, then so be it.


	6. Chapter 6

"Snape's going to be all over him," said Ron in disgust. Harry glanced over at Malfoy as they lined up outside the Potions room, and felt himself scowling automatically. "The prodigal returned," added Ron. "Urgh."

"Yes. God, Snape must love having Draco following in his footsteps," said Harry. Ron nodded.

"Reformed Death Eaters. They could form their own club." Harry met Ron's gaze and they both laughed. He looked back over at the handful of Slytherins. Draco Malfoy looked far more self-possessed this morning than he had last night. Seeing him flustered and alone had given Harry a degree of uncharitable satisfaction: poetic justice was growing entirely too rare in the Wizarding world. This morning, however, Malfoy's hair was gelled neatly into place and his face was twisted into the familiar aloof sneer. He didn't seem to be remotely interested in the fact that the Slytherins were all pointedly standing out of his way.

"I wonder if this will start a trend?" Harry muttered. "First Malfoy, then Goyle, then Crabbe, then Pansy Parkinson - before you know it they'll all be back here claiming to have seen the light, and secretly planning to murder us all in our beds."

"Crabbe's dead," said Hermione shortly. Harry stared.

"What?"

"Don't you read the newspapers?"

"No, Hermione. Not over the summer, as you very well know." She looked a little apologetic at that. Hermione had met the Dursleys, and she still hadn't quite got over the fact that they were actually worse than Harry's description. Ron nodded.

"Yeah - I thought you knew? He died around the same time as Mrs Malfoy, a couple of weeks before the start of term."

"Crabbe's dead?" repeated Harry. "That's - but he was our age."

"Yes. Well, so were Padma and Parvati," said Hermione. "So were lots of people. Those Muggles in Arbroath, for example."

"And Malfoy's mother too?" He felt a little pang of guilt. Which was stupid, really, because Malfoy was still a nasty piece of work. He glanced over at Draco with mixed feelings. "I didn't know. How?"

"An accident, supposedly, but there were an awful lot of accidents that weekend. I keep forgetting that you don't read The Prophet. The obituaries covered four full pages in one edition - the popular belief is that You-Know-Who was using his followers for sanguinomancy."

"What?"

Hermione sighed. Harry was surprised by how old she suddenly looked. "Blood magic. Like he used on you. Although clearly a different spell." She studied Harry with an unreadable expression. "I don't know if you realise what it was like -- but you must have felt the same, watching the news on the BBC and wondering which disasters were normal Muggle disasters and which were caused by Voldemort." She paused, and then added tentatively, "I know Dumbledore's got a host of magical safeguards around Privet Drive, Harry, but not everyone gets that sort of special consideration."

"What?" Harry gaped at her. Her expression was almost apologetic.

"It was in The Prophet, so I assumed -- didn't you know the Ministry refused to extend magical protection to Muggles, even families of wizards?" Harry had not known. He swallowed hard, thinking about the Grangers, who had always been so kind to him. "It was scary, knowing that there were Death Eaters and God knows what out there, and not even being permitted to set up wards around our own house because I was under age. " Hermione's expression the very epitome of quiet determination, and Harry had a sudden vision of a future Hermione becoming Minister of Magic and knocking the Ministry into shape quite thoroughly. If anyone could sort them out, Hermione could. "You-Know-Who mustn't win, Harry."

"No," he agreed, trying to ignore the implications of Hermione's tone. It was not easy having this reputation. Most of the time Harry didn't feel like The Boy Who Lived when he was with Ron and Hermione - they knew him far too well. But Harry was uncomfortably conscious of the weight of other people's preconceptions, and this year it was worse than ever. For once he had been almost glad to spend his summer with the Dursleys; they at least did not look at him with eyes full of dumb hero worship, imploring him - or, worse, confidently expecting him - to save the day. Harry had been increasingly conscious of those awed gazes at the end of last term. More and more people were looking at him the way the Creevleys did.

Saving Dumbledore's life and revealing Cornelius Fudge as a collaborator had certainly done nothing to lower his profile in the Wizarding World. It didn't seem to matter to The Daily Prophet that Harry had had help. It didn't seem to matter to them that Harry had not been quick enough to save the twins or Remus Lupin - and the general consensus that the only good werewolf was a dead werewolf had come as something of a shock to Harry. Whether they came out and said it or not, most of the magical community was clearly expecting Harry Potter to save them from Voldemort. Harry Potter himself, on the other hand, was painfully conscious that his successes to date had been a combination of sheer good luck and assistance from other people, and the sense of responsibility, when he let himself consider it, was terrifying.

He did not much appreciate having Hermione looking at him like he was the last hope for Wizardkind. But on the other hand he was a little taken aback; it had never occurred to him to wonder how well protected the Muggle-born students were during the holidays, or how frightening it must have been for them to know that Voldemort was out there and that they were in the firing line. He had vaguely assumed that the kind of protection that he took for granted was extended to other Muggle families with wizard children. Evidently this was not, in fact, the case.

"Well, Mr Potter? Do you intend to grace us with your presence this morning, or are you already an expert on all aspects of Potions manufacture?" Harry snapped out of his reverie and quickened his pace. He hadn't noticed Professor Snape opening the door.

"Sorry, sir," he said as he caught up with Ron and Hermione. Snape sighed, and eyed him with his customary expression of dislike.

"When you are all quite ready," said Snape pointedly, once everyone was seated. The little eddies of conversation all stilled. "That's better. This morning you will be taking a test, to establish how well you know your poisons and remedies." Harry's gasp was echoed by most of the other pupils. Hermione alone greeted the news with equanimity.

"But sir, you didn't tell us - "protested Dean Thomas unwisely. Snape rounded on him at once.

"Correct, Mr Thomas. I am telling you now. If you expect all poisons to come with a warning that will allow you the opportunity to wade through tome after tome in order to find a cure, then Natural Selection will probably spare me the trouble of teaching future generations of Thomases. For which I shall be profoundly grateful." He glared at the class. "Quills out at once!"

There was a discontented flurry of feathers and parchment. Neville, with depressing predictability, contrived to spill ink all over his desk. Professor Snape's wand hand was in motion before the tide of black fluid reached the edge, and a moment later the ink had turned to sand.

"Thank you, Professor. Sorry, Professor," stammered Neville.

"You have ten seconds to refill your ink pot, Longbottom," Snape said icily. "If you spill it again, you will be writing the test in your own blood."

"Yes, sir."

"Question one. Describe the distinctive qualities of common arsenic and the best method of counteracting its effects."

As he barked out question after question, Professor Snape stalked around the classroom, glancing at papers and sneering at poor penmanship. When he reached Draco Malfoy he paused.

"Mr Malfoy, do my eyes deceive me?" he asked silkily. Harry looked up with interest.

"Sir?" said Malfoy.

"You have answered two out of a total of fourteen questions. Are you trying to conserve ink to make up for that which Mr Longbottom has wasted?"

"No, sir." Harry blew through the end of his quill and watched Malfoy's pale skin gradually flush. Professor Snape glowered at his former favourite.

"Are you exhausted from the effort of writing these two answers, Mr Malfoy?" Harry could not recall ever having heard Snape use this tone on a Slytherin. He glanced at Ron.

"No, sir," said Malfoy evenly. "I don't know the answers. Sir."

"That, Mr Malfoy, is perhaps because these are mostly potions we have studied this term. But you weren't here, were you?" Draco's eyes darkened interestingly. Harry grinned.

"No, sir."

"Because you already know all that there is to know about magic, eh Mr Malfoy? You could already teach Arsenio Jigger a thing or two about potions. Isn't that right?"

"No, sir."

"No," Snape pursed his lips. "No it is not. Well I can say with some confidence that you will not be passing this test, Mr Malfoy. I want to see a scroll describing the seven main types of poison, specifying at least five examples of each, with all qualities and effects and any known antidotes. At least twenty inches of writing, Mr Malfoy, to be on my desk by tomorrow morning." Harry could feel Ron trembling with silent laughter at his side. Seamus Finnegan laughed out loud, and Snape's head whipped around at once. "And that goes for you too, Mr Finnegan. On my desk by nine o'clock in the morning. Does anyone else feel an urge to spend the evening writing?" Silence reigned. "Very good. Now - number fifteen. How many minutes must Bellaworm root be soaked in Kankanath bile in order to transform its corrosive properties and produce a cure for the common cold?"

* * *

 

"That was brilliant," said Ron with feeling as they filed out into the corridor. Harry grinned at him. "That was absolutely bloody brilliant."

"It was all right," said Hermione. "I don't think he really covered enough of the Chinese poisons, but it was okay."

"Not the test! Blimey, Hermione, get a grip. I meant Malfoy. That was priceless. I'd have paid good money to have that happen, and there it was for free! Perfect."

"It really was," Harry agreed. "It's about damned time he had a taste of the real Professor Snape. I guess there's only room for one reformed Death Eater in Hogwarts after all."

"Yep. Looks that way," said Ron cheerfully. There was a spring in his step as they headed back towards Gryffindor. Hermione lagged behind a little. When Harry glanced at her she was frowning.

"What?" Harry demanded.

"I'm just trying to work this out," she said slowly. "What you said yesterday - were you serious, Harry? Did you really think Draco could be a spy?" Harry stared at her.

"Well, I - I don't know," he replied. It was so familiar to just think about Draco as a minor irritation that he had almost forgotten about the bigger picture. "I don't trust him," said Harry. Ron realised that the other two had stopped in their tracks, and came back to join them, his expression quizzical.

"Who?"

"Malfoy."

"Well obviously you don't trust him. That goes without saying. He's a git."

"So where does that leave us, though?" demanded Hermione, beginning to walk once more, but more slowly now. She didn't look very happy. "Because either he's genuinely reformed and we should be giving him a chance - or else he's here for some other reasons and we could all be in danger. And I honestly don't know which. I'd like to think even Malfoy can see the error of his ways, but…"

"It doesn't seem very likely," said Harry grimly. She nodded. "So you do think he's fooling Dumbledore?" Hermione bit her lip.

"Well, you thought so. And - Fudge managed it." There was a pause. Harry felt slightly sick. "Why is Snape picking on him all of a sudden?" asked Hermione." You'd think that they'd be more chummy than ever now, but Snape was looking at Draco like he expected him to sprout horns. What if Snape knows something we don't? What if Snape suspects him of being a spy?"

"I think he's a spy," said Ron firmly. "I'm not saying he'll be a good spy, but I don't believe he's turned over a new leaf. This is Malfoy we're talking about. I don't trust him as far as I could throw Hagrid."

They walked down the familiar corridors in silence for a while, passing animated portraits, suits of rusting armour and little knots of wide-eyed First Years.

"But can you see Malfoy having the guts to come into the middle of the enemy Head Quarters to spy on Dumbledore?" asked Hermione, as they neared the entrance to Gryffindor. It was a fair point. Ron frowned.

"Well - no. But then I can't see him having the nerve to stand up to Voldemort either." They fell silent, considering the matter.

"Bunnies," said Hermione to the Fat Lady, and the portrait swung open. They stepped inside, and as they did so, Nearly Headless Nick swept them an elegant and insubstantial bow.

"Good morning Mr Potter, Miss Granger, Mr Weasley," said Nick, and they spared him absent-minded greetings.

"But if he really has betrayed his father -- I mean, it looks like Mrs Malfoy's death wasn't exactly natural causes, unless you consider Death by You Know Who to be natural causes for a Death Eater, so you can understand Draco not feeling very loyal to Lucius Malfoy," said Hermione, reluctantly. "If he really has betrayed his own father and You Know Who and joined Dumbledore, then that took a lot of nerve. And it's the right decision, but it can't have been easy. So that's kind of admirable, isn't it?"

"Either way, he's a traitor," said Harry at last. "He can't be trusted. I mean, either he's betrayed his own flesh and blood, or if he didn't, then he's betraying all of us now by having pretended to betray his own family."

"Who's a traitor?" asked Nick, floating along behind them and frowning pallidly. Hermione smiled at him.

"We're just talking about Draco Malfoy's unexpected return. It's difficult to know what to make of it." The ghost tugged at his moustache and followed them into the common room.

"Things aren't always black and white, are they?" pointed out Nick. "I mean, when one's loyalties are divided, then it can be difficult to decide which kind of treachery is the worst."

"Exactly," said Hermione. Harry shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt," she added, but she didn't sound entirely certain.

"Perhaps he didn't want to betray his friends and family," suggested Nick. "But if a failure to betray one's loved ones will definitely leave one dead -- well, what then? Sometimes events may conspire to make someone a traitor, will they or nil they."

"I think the only thing we can count on with Malfoy is that he'll look out for himself," said Ron. Harry nodded.

"We should keep an eye on him," said Harry at last.


	7. Chapter 7

Subtlety, Draco concluded, had not been one of the qualities that the Sorting Hat deemed appropriate for denizens of the House of Gryffindor. It appeared that Master Potter and his unprepossessing little sidekicks had taken it upon themselves to monitor his activities, and their notion of spying seemed to involve sitting very nearby and occasionally turning the pages in one of the random books piled before them. He glanced round at their suspicious faces, arching one brow, and was almost amused to see them busy themselves at once with their various tomes and scrolls. Weasley, Draco noticed, was apparently engaged in the extraordinarily thankless task of reading 'Hogwarts: A History.' In French.

Draco gravely considered the pros and cons of engaging in a spot of malicious use of magic right under Dumbledore's nose, and concluded that it was not, on balance, a particularly wise idea. He sighed, and returned his attention to the volume at hand. Three pairs of eyes bored into the back of his skull.

After his fourth attempt to start the same wretched paragraph, Draco conceded that his concentration was in tatters and that he would probably benefit from a breather. Accordingly he closed the volume, rose to his feet in one smooth movement, stepped away from the table and swept over to the Gryffindors.

"Yes? Have you formed an unofficial Malfoy fanclub, Potter? Taken up stalking as your new hobby?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Harry. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Spare me. What can I do for you? I'm touched that you missed me so dreadfully that you feel the need to follow me around like a day-old chick, of course, but I can't say that the sentiment is reciprocated." He smiled and turned his attention to Hermione. She looked thoroughly unimpressed, which was certainly nothing new. Draco took a long, leisurely look at her.

"Have you put on weight, Granger?" he asked. Ron, predictable as ever, bristled and rose half-way to his feet like a ginger jack-in-a-box.

"Why, you - " he burst out, an angry flush rising up unbecomingly over his cheeks. Hermione's ink-stained fingers found Ron's hand automatically and pulled him back down.

"Ron, he really isn't worth it," she said. She sounded disappointingly unwounded. Draco smiled sweetly at Ron and lifted one eyebrow.

"Oh, please. Trying to work your way into her pants by dazzling her with your protective machismo, Weasley? It's going to take more than a bit of bluster to get your sorry ginger arse laid." The no-holds barred approach had the delightful effect of startling the Gryffindors into speechlessness, and Draco took the opportunity to plunge onwards. "I suppose you could try slipping an Amas potion into her cocoa one evening," he added, thoughtfully. "But I still don't fancy your chances - and besides, a blind man could see that she fancies Potter. Pity he's already got that Ravenclaw riding his broom, eh, Granger?"

"Oh, for pity's sake - " said Harry, who had turned a satisfying shade of crimson and was trying very hard not to look at Hermione. Draco ploughed on. He was, he realised, having more fun than he could remember experiencing in months.

"Mind you, I can understand you being squeamish about Weasley - even a Mudblood has to have some standards, and a gangly great lump in second hand robes is hardly a sight to set anyone's knickers afire. Can't fault you for being fussy. Hell, I'd offer to give you one myself, but I'm not a charity worker. Well, hasn't this been nice? We really must do this again sometime." And with that he swept cheerfully off out of the door, leaving the Gryffindors gaping in his wake.

 

* * *

 

The awkward thing about avoiding other people was, in hindsight, that it left one embarrassingly lacking in alibis. Had Draco realised that alibis were to be an issue he would certainly have made a point of being observed engaged in some harmless pursuit or other; as he was not gifted with foresight, however, he instead spent several hours entirely alone and didn't find out about Fang until early evening, when he returned to the library.

Draco's first impulse upon sweeping out of the library had been to return to Slytherin, but the sight of Esme Millington and her pathetic little coterie had turned his stomach slightly, and instead he marched on purposefully past them and in the general direction of the East wing. He spent half an hour or so lying on a bench in a disused classroom, trying to concentrate on his copy of Victor Nonpareil's "101 Ways Of Combating The Dark Arts". Eventually, however, he fell asleep.

When he woke up, stiff and cold and somewhat disoriented, he decided to abandon scholarship for the day. Instead he stuffed the book in his pocket and tried stalking around the quiet corridors looking martyred and Byronic , which was not nearly as much fun without Crabbe and Goyle or somebody around to appreciate the effect and offer words of comfort and admiration.

That said, Draco kept getting the strangest sensation that he was being watched, despite all evidence to the contrary. He had an odd, prickles-on-the-back-of-the-neck conviction that if he spun around right now he would catch whoever it was. This was sufficiently disconcerting that he began to glance over his shoulder to no avail, and at last he decided to return to Slytherin after all. Not that he was scared, of course; it was simply a matter of being practical. And it was, after all, his House. Besides, he told himself, quickening his pace, why on earth should a Malfoy be driven out of his own House by Millington and her ilk? It was ridiculous. It smacked of cowardice to stay away like this. He should return at once. Quickly.

As he neared the entrance to Slytherin, Draco shivered. He knew, as surely as he had ever known anything, that there really was someone or something following him. He bit his lip and feigned casualness, wandering idly down the quiet corridor, trailing fingertips over dark wood and appearing to be fascinated by the various scenes of bucolic bliss populated by bland bands of nymphs.

Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the tiniest smudge of moving colour, and at last he whirled around triumphantly and pointed an accusing finger at - nothing. Again.

He flushed, and scowled, and felt unreassured.

His attention was abruptly distracted, however, by the unwelcome vision of a wrathful Hagrid bearing down on him like the Hogwarts train at full speed, brandishing his mended wand with fell intent.

"I know what yer done, yer filthy little Death-eatin' snake! An' if yer don't make it right I'll skin yer alive and use yer pelt as a doormat!"

Draco backpedalled hurriedly. Hagrid looked every inch the half-giant in the cramped corridor; his unkempt hair was brushing the ceiling as he stormed forwards.

"I think there's been some sort of misunderstanding," said Draco, raising his hands before him and wishing he'd thought to carry his wand. "I don't know what you - ummph!" Hagrid grabbed Draco by the front of his robes and lifted him up into the air. Up close, Hagrid's breath reeked of tobacco and beer. He did not, Draco was unsurprised to learn, seem to value the importance of regular laundry, or indeed regular bathing. Since breathing was remarkably difficult with the collar of his robes bunched tightly around his throat, however, the aroma was unlikely to be a problem for very long. He blinked into Hagrid's furious face and wondered what in the world had happened now.

"Undo what yer done! Tell 'em what yer used on Fang, or else I'll - "

"Unhand my student at once," said Professor Snape, in a tone which promised a universe of pain were it not obeyed instantly.  
Draco's first instinct was a rush of sheer gratitude, but a heartbeat later he remembered that he was no longer entirely sure whether the Professor was friend or foe. After a pause that seemed to last for hours, his feet were slammed into the ground with unexpected force, and for a moment Hagrid's huge fingers remained bunched in the fabric of Draco's robes, restricting his breathing; then, with an expression of contempt, he shoved Draco back into Professor Snape.

" 'Ave 'im, then. But if 'e don't tell us what 'e done to Fang, I'll break every bone in 'is body."

"Mr Malfoy, have you done anything to this person's pet?"

Draco rubbed at his reddened throat and glanced from Hagrid to Snape and back again.

"No, sir," he said. "I have no idea what he's talking about."

Snape eyed him narrowly. "Very well. You appear to have the wrong student. Might I suggest you repair to your -- hut?"

"An' I'm just s'posed to believe 'im?" For a moment Draco truly thought that Hagrid was going to hit Professor Snape. "Fang's sufferin' right now, an' it's all on account of this one, I'd wager my life on it. 'E said, just t'other night! 'E said 'e was goin' to do it!"

"Is this true?" Draco took half a step back, startled by the ferocity of Snape's expression.

"Well, in a manner of speaking -- I mean, I said that I hoped it died, or something along those lines, but I never meant that I was going to do anything to the filthy thing. What's happened to the mutt?"

Hagrid actually snarled. "Don’t you go playin' the innocent!" he spat. "You know perfec'ly well. Now you better come along o' me an' tell Madame Pomfrey what you done. An' don’t you go thinkin' you can stop me!" he added, glowering at Professor Snape.

"If you think you can threaten me," Snape began, in a deceptively calm voice, "then you are even more of an idiot than you look."

"I'll come," said Draco, with a sigh. This was shaping to be yet another unpleasant evening to add to his growing collection of thoroughly unpleasant evenings. "Although, for once, I'm perfectly innocent." He smiled provokingly. "Or at least as innocent as a Malfoy is constitutionally capable of being."

* * *

 

"Of course he's guilty." Ron looked thoroughly indignant. "We heard him, didn't we? He confessed!"

Hermione pulled a face. "Dumbledore trusts him," she pointed out, biting her lower lip as she patiently waited for the reluctant ketchup to leave the bottle and land on her bacon roll. "I know Malfoy's -- well, you know. Malfoy. But Professor Dumbledore isn't a fool, Ron."

"But we heard him," insisted Ron, as if she had somehow not understood. "He threatens to hurt Fang, and then the next thing that happens is that Fang gets sick. It couldn't be any clearer. And, Hermione - it's Malfoy we're talking about. Fresh from the heart of the Death Eater Army. He practically has 'Guilty' tattooed on his forehead. I'm telling you, he did it."

"Well," she temporised, patting the base of the sauce bottle encouragingly, "It's difficult to say, really. I mean, he's a prat, and a nasty piece of work, but we weren't there. And at least whatever the poison was, Snape's panacea cured it." Ron's face was a picture. "It's just that Dumbledore trusts him," explained Hermione, looking apologetic.

"Harry! Back me up," demanded Ron as Harry arrived at the table. "Malfoy poisoned Fang, didn't he?"

"Yes," said Harry automatically, waving at Cho as she hurried over to the Ravenclaw table. "Malfoy did it."

"Harry!" snapped Hermione, slamming the bottle down on the table rather too forcefully and earning them a sudden rain of tomato sauce.

"Hey, watch out," Ron said, wiping ketchup from his nose with the back of his hand.

"Does the phrase 'innocent until proven guilty' mean anything to you?" she demanded.

"Certainly. But so does the phrase 'innocent until proven Malfoy'. He did it, Hermione! It's obvious. He is up to no good -- I'm telling you, this thing with Fang is just the start."


	8. Chapter 8

Draco was growing accustomed to having one whole end of the table to himself; in truth he found dining at the Slytherin table considerably less disturbing than mealtimes back at the Manor during the interminable days since his mother's death. That had been excruciating. Now that he had more or less got his head around the fact that his coterie had vanished and the dregs of Slytherin were suddenly the sum total of Slytherin, Draco was almost able to find mealtimes relaxing. If there was nobody laughing at his jokes or flirting with him across the mashed potatoes as there would have been in years gone by, it was still better than seeing Lucius's shuttered face and Narcissa's empty chair. One could actually learn to like the quiet; at least it granted him the opportunity to mull over his situation at length.

He was sure somebody had been watching him. Time and again Draco had caught the faintest twitch of movement out of the corner of his eye only to have it melt into nothingness as soon as his head snapped around to look. It was, in all probability, simply some monitoring spell of Dumbledore's, but it was making his skin crawl. Against all logic, Draco kept expecting to find Lucius or Riddle waiting for him each time he rounded a familiar corner. His dreams were still full of Narcissa's hoarse screaming and the sound of Voldemort's resonant, reasonable, terrifying voice, but he hadn't quite been able to bring himself to ask Madam Pomfrey for a stupefying draft to numb his slumbers; the prospect of having his mind dulled and defenceless was still more frightening than the thought of the nightmares themselves.

The familiar irritation of Potter's voice was a welcome distraction slicing through Draco's reverie. The Holier-than-thou Trinity had evidently finished their repasts and now they were returning to the tedious sanctity of their common room. Draco experienced a momentary impulse to stick out one ankle and trip Harry Potter up, just for shits and giggles and for old time's sake. Instead he angled his head elegantly and found that The Boy Who Lived was already glaring at him. Draco smiled his sweetest smile, and after a moment's consideration blew a kiss to Granger. She rolled her eyes and then said something inaudible to the predictably furious Weasley. They both, Draco noticed with amusement, looked decidedly pink, and were keeping very carefully out of one another's personal space. Gryffindors. They defied belief.

"Off to fight the forces of evil, Potter?" he asked breezily as they swept by. "Essays to slay, seekers to lay, rulebreakers to catch? Little old witches to help across the road?" He sighed. "Am I really alone in registering the irony of Harry Potter being made a prefect, after all the countless rules and regulations he's so flagrantly smashed in the name of Gryffindor high jinks over the years?" He was, admittedly, a little rusty, but tormenting Potter and his little friends was like riding a broom. One never forgot how to do it. It was, moreover, the most reassuringly familiar thing about being back at Hogwarts, and comforting in its own fashion. Potter paused, with his sidekicks hard at his heels.

"Malfoy, why don't you just fuck right off?" said Potter with feeling. Draco beamed.

"Ah, the classic Potter wit. You can't beat it." He glanced over at Granger and Weasley quizzically. "Still not shagging, I gather? Plus ca change." For a moment he thought that Weasley really would hit him, but Granger's fingers closed around the clenched fist and the redhead actually shivered at her touch. Draco, feeling oddly cheated, laughed. "Get a load of that sexual tension. My word."

"You'll get yours, Malfoy," threatened Ron.

"Promises, promises." Draco's brow arched slightly and he offered them a lascivious wink as he pushed himself away from the table, smiling unpleasantly at them through lowered lashes. He stood up, and took definite pleasure in reminding them that he was a good inch or so taller than Ron Weasley. "But I'm afraid I don't fancy you any more than Granger does, so flirting won't get you anywhere. Quite apart from anything else, the Weasleys are simply beneath me. Not that I have any objections to -- ah -- going down once in a while, but one has to draw the line somewhere. Clearly Granger feels that way too."

That did the trick. Ron Weasley was absolutely livid. Potter and Granger both grabbed hold of him at the same time and it was only their combined efforts that kept Draco from having his teeth knocked down his throat. Draco heard stifled giggles from the far end of the Slytherin table and grinned despite himself.

"You're a disgrace to the name of wizardry," Ron hissed, and Draco's grin widened.

"Now, now. You'll give yourself a heart attack. You look positively apoplectic, and that flush clashes most unbecomingly with your hair." He turned on his heel and swept cheerfully away.

"Come back here, you cowardly son of a bitch!"

"Ron, please," Granger exclaimed unhappily.

"Your mother must have died of shame!"

There was an audible gasp, and Draco froze in mid-stride.

"Ron!" Draco registered that Potter sounded genuinely shocked. He himself was shaking.

"No, damn it, he can't treat people like that and get away with it. He's a total waste of skin, and he's strutting about like he owns the bloody place. Everybody hates him. His family hates him. He's a disgrace."

Draco's limbs felt like lead. He turned around very slowly and looked Ron Weasley in the eye, all merriment gone, as magic pooled and gathered under his skin. Draco knew the words to make Weasley's skin crisp and blacken like the flesh of a roast pig; to scatter his limbs to the corners of the room and braid his entrails around the candles; to pull him inside out and leave him still alive and spasming bloodily on the ground; to turn his stupid ginger hair into a writhing mass of vipers all eager to sink venomous fangs into his stupid freckled skin. A coruscation of pointless and deeply satisfying curses trembled on Draco's tongue, and he felt his hair rising up with static and the ozone buzz of magic. Conversations stilled, silence spreading swift as ripples from a brick lobbed carelessly into dark waters, and around the dining hall hands reached for wands in the tiny moment between thought and action. And all the while Draco kept his eyes fixed on Ron Weasley's and thought about Narcissa and Lucius and all the broiling and helpless fury these two inspired.

"Mr Malfoy?" Dumbledore's voice was deceptively mild, rising gently in a question. It was enough. Draco clamped down on the chaos of magic and emotion and felt his cheeks flushing with the effort. He shot a speaking glance at the headmaster, apology tangling with resentment in one flash of wet quicksilver, and then all but ran out of the room.

* * *

 

Draco was still shaking when he reached the top of the stairs. He had moved beyond fury into its wobbly aftermath: pulse still racing but all exhilaration gone, leaving only a sick sense of violence aborted, and the dull, metallic taste of despair furring his tongue like blood. He should never have come back.

He rounded a corner, taking careful breaths to steady his nerves and castigating himself for letting the snot-nosed ginger oik push his buttons so easily, and walked straight into his father.

Panic locked Draco's muscles and stole his breath away. The corridor was silent and Lucius had apparently been waiting for him, bold as brass and perfectly impossible, a scant few hundred yards from the Great Hall. He wore the same expression that he had worn when Narcissa started screaming, and Draco's sense of his own powerlessness was sudden and absolute. His mind went blank as the cleanest sheet of virginal vellum and at that moment he couldn't have uttered a curse if his life depended upon it; as indeed it probably did. In person Lucius invariably made him feel ten years old.

"You were always a disappointment," Lucius said matter-of-factly. He seemed entirely unconcerned by the possibility of discovery and was eyeing Draco with the kind of distaste normally reserved for dragon dung. "I should have killed you instead of your mother." His tone was perfectly dispassionate. "She wasn't yet too old to give me another son, after all; a proper Malfoy, not a snivelling little worm afraid to seize the chance of greatness. You have humiliated me, Draco. Such behaviour cannot go unpunished."

Footsteps sounded behind him, but Draco could not drag his eyes away from his father. It had all been utterly pointless after all.

"Malfoy?" It was Potter's voice, of all voices, and Draco experienced a stab of irritation that the last thing he heard in life was likely to be the voice of the Boy Who Lived. Inexplicably, his father had not yet acted, and it occurred to Draco, belatedly, that perhaps it was not too late after all.

"Warn Dumbledore," he said without turning round, and some of the righteous anger that he had experienced in the Hall began to seep back into him. He squared his shoulders and closed his fingers around the stem of his borrowed wand. "They've found a way past the wards." Lucius was still lifting his own wand with terrifying slowness and Harry Potter was still right behind him, the bloody idiot. "Now, Potter." Nothing. "Run, you irritating bastard," Draco said helplessly, wondering why Lucius hadn't yet killed them both, and whether he was capable of casting Avada Kadavra on his own father. If not, then they were about to die, and Dumbledore would never know what hit him. It would all, he reflected as he drew breath, have been an awful lot simpler if Lucius really had killed him in the first place.

"It's a boggart," said Harry Potter in a small voice.

For a long moment the words made absolutely no sense, and then wrath and comprehension swept through Draco simultaneously. "Ridiculismus," he spat with a snap of his unfamiliar wand, and abruptly Lucius's robes turned into Muggle clothing. It was only then that Draco noticed the armoire with its door ajar. Draco snarled another curse and the Lucius-shaped boggart flew through the air like a child's rag doll, landing in the wardrobe with an ugly, meaty sound. The doors slammed shut. "Incendio," said Draco coldly, and the armoire burst into flames. Inside, the boggart started to scream.

Potter hurled a dampening charm at the wardrobe and the flames died away at once. Draco finally turned around.

"It wasn't the boggart's fault," said Potter reproachfully, staring at the smouldering furniture. "That was a horrible thing to do." For once Draco could not find any words to do justice to his feelings.

"Your idea of a little joke, Potter?" he said at last. The other boy blanched, then scowled.

"No! I mean - it was a joke, a bad joke, but it wasn't my idea. I just heard Dea- ah, someone say that they had set it to open if you came past on your own. They were monitoring it. I came to warn you."

Draco stared at him blankly.

"Out of respect for the deep bond of friendship we share?"

"Hardly. But - look, what Ron said back there was completely out of line. Although you are a complete and utter git, Malfoy, there's no two ways about it, and you absolutely deserved - something - for being so vile to him. But not - well. Look, I'm sorry about your mother, all right?"

A humourless smile curved Draco's mouth.

"I see. So now we have so much in common we're practically soul mates, is that it? Go to hell, Potter. I'd rather befriend a flobberworm."

"Well that makes two of us. God. I don't know why I bothered."

"Neither do I. Go and play with your precious little chums, why don't you?"

"Fine. And you're welcome, by the way."

Draco watched Harry Potter stalk back around the corner, and began to mull over appropriate ways of avenging himself on Dean Thomas without running the risk of actual expulsion.


	9. Chapter 9

There was one other student waiting outside Professor Snape's room when Draco arrived: a dark-haired Mudblood Hufflepuff whose name Draco couldn't quite recall. The boy grinned at him, and Draco was so thoroughly startled that he had actually smiled back before he remembered who and where he was. He schooled his features into a more appropriately disdainful expression at once, but not before the Hufflepuff's grin had broadened into a real smile that lit up his eyes distractingly. Draco felt decidedly ruffled. Before he could utter anything suitably quelling, however, the door swung open and Professor Snape issued forth into the corridor. Draco felt his shoulders stiffen.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley. Draco Malfoy." He looked at them both with disfavour and then glanced cursorily around before raising one eyebrow. "There is a certain hideous inevitability to Mr Longbottom's absence. I do trust that he has a good reason this time - such as, perhaps, being dead, or at least permanently incapacitated?" The two boys exchanged uncertain glances.

"I don't - " began Justin cautiously, but then the sound of hurried footsteps made them all turn, and sure enough Neville Longbottom was scurrying down the corridor, pink-cheeked and panting.

"I'm sorry!" he exclaimed as he reached them. "I'm sorry, Professor. I forgot it was today, and then I was in the Common Room and Ginny asked me whether I --"

"Mr Longbottom," interrupted Professor Snape in his most withering tone, "kindly rid yourself of the notion that I am remotely interested in your affairs. You are late. You will therefore oblige me by reporting to detention again tomorrow."

"Yes, Professor Snape," agreed Neville sadly. Draco rolled his eyes. A year ago he would have automatically made some kind of scathing aside to court Snape's approval. Of course, a year ago he wouldn't have been in detention at all, let alone with a Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor, but an awful lot of things had changed since then.

"This way," said Snape, and with an expression of immeasurable weariness he stalked off down the corridor. The three boys exchanged glances and hurried after the vanishing figure. The Professor was, as far as Draco could gather, congenitally incapable of walking in any manner less purposeful than a stride. Personally, Draco had always favoured sauntering, but at this stage a dawdling pace would clearly go down like a dose of grindilow-liver oil, and he had no particular wish to incur the Professor's wrath.

Rather than stopping at the Potions Room, as Draco had more than half expected, Professor Snape led his little band down several flights of stairs, through a door behind an arras, up another flight of stairs and down another winding corridor, until Draco was almost dizzy with trying to remember the route, and very much doubted he would be able to retrace their steps unaided. From the way Justin Finch-Fletchley was frowning, he was clearly having the same thoughts. Neville Longbottom looked thoroughly miserable; but then, Draco reflected uncharitably, Neville Longbottom was perfectly capable of getting lost between his bedroom and the lavatory.

They stopped at a wooden door covered in peeling blue paint, and Professor Snape produced a bunch of keys and sorted through them impatiently until he found a slender copper rod with no discernible markings. Draco couldn't quite distinguish the word that the Professor muttered, but he was interested by its result: the surface of the metal shimmered and buckled until it had reshaped itself into an ordinary looking key. Professor Snape promptly fitted it into the lock, opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

Draco didn't know whether the store chamber had always been crammed with so many barrels and boxes and bottles and jars of potions ingredients, or whether it was a result of hording due to the current state of undeclared hostilities; nevertheless, the room was packed to the rafters with herbs and minerals and viscous liquids. It smelled like someone had tried to extinguish a fire in an incense factory using nothing but camel dung and vinegar.

"Well? Are you perhaps waiting for gilt-edged invitations?" asked Professor Snape.

"No, sir. Sorry, sir," said Longbottom. He stepped inside at once, and then started to cough. Professor Snape watched him, and then sighed.

"And this is the future of the Wizarding world," he said to himself grimly. "Well, come on then. Make yourselves useful." He looked at the other two boys pointedly, and then stalked deeper into the room. Draco and Justin duly followed Neville into the olfactory chaos; to Draco's surprise Professor Snape did not moderate his pace at all as he reached the back wall, but instead turned sharply and appeared to walk through the shelves, followed almost immediately by Longbottom. Draco glanced questioningly at Justin Finch-Fletchley, and was startled to realise that the other boy was paying no attention to Snape at all, but was instead watching him with a strangely speculative expression. It was disconcerting. Draco was not accustomed to thinking of Hufflepuffs any more than he thought about House Elves or wallpaper, but there was something about Finch-Fletchley's smile that absolutely refused to be ignored. He seemed to find Draco - amusing. Which was intolerable. But there was no malice in Justin's expression, and this rather threw Draco.

"In your own time, Mr Malfoy. Mr Finch-Fletchley," came Professor Snape's voice. Draco quickened his pace and felt his face growing warm as he realised that the other boy was still watching him. He saw, when he reached the far wall, that the room was in fact 'L' shaped, and thus considerably larger than at first appeared. Professor Snape had not stepped through actual or illusory shelves, but rather through a narrow and doorless archway into the longer section of the 'L'. The part of the store chamber in which they were now standing was three or four times the size of the smaller room, and in addition to sacks and vats and bottles and crates of various arcane substances it also held a narrow work bench and several unreliable-looking chairs.

"Gentlemen," said the professor, in a tone that left them in absolutely no doubt about how inappropriate a designation he considered this to be, "you are all at least seventeen years old - Mr Longbottom, if you are about to tell me your birth date, may I recommend you restrain yourself? Thank you. If I may continue? You are all more than old enough to be capable of working at a task without somebody standing over you. Frankly, I have far more important things to do with my time than waste it on you. I am, therefore, and against my better instincts, going to trust you to get on with this unsupervised, as a point of honour. You may assure yourselves that I shall know instantly should you leave this room before the allotted time." He was looking directly at Draco as he spoke, and Draco found himself thinking of the skin-crawling sensation of being observed which he had kept on experiencing ever since his return to Hogwarts. He shivered, and whilst Snape gave them careful instructions on which items he wanted decanting into which jars and flasks, Draco strained to remember any clue that Lucius or Voldemort had ever given as to where they obtained their information about Dumbledore's plans. "I implore you not to damage anything," added Professor Snape, glaring at Longbottom. "Should I find anything broken or spilled, you will be paying for it in both time and money. Obtaining these ingredients is no easy matter in this day and age, and I shall not look kindly upon wastage." Draco spared a glance for the Gryffindor and saw that he was shaking. At this rate, Draco reflected, Neville Longbottom was unlikely to be out of detention by the time he was forty. "I trust I have made myself clear, and that you all know what you are supposed to be doing? Let me impress upon you that this task is important, however tedious you may find it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Professor," said Justin Finch-Fletchley gravely. Professor Snape gave him a hard look and made an incredulous noise in the back of his throat.

"You have three hours. When I return, I shall expect all these jars and flasks to be filled according to my instructions." He turned on his heel.

"Professor Snape?" ventured Neville, with more gumption than Draco would have expected. The professor paused, and glanced back over one shoulder. His expression was not encouraging.

"Mr Longbottom?"

"Three hours - ah, what about, um, what if we need the loo?" It was actually quite a good question, but Draco was extremely grateful that he hadn't asked it himself. Professor Snape closed his eyes, his features contorted into an expression of weary disgust.

"There is a lavatory at the end of the hall, Mr Longbottom, should you find yourself unequal to the task of bladder control. Every minute wasted will be added on to the end of your detention."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Well, get on with it!" snapped the professor, and on that note he left.

Neville Longbottom relaxed visibly. The three of them stared at the work bench, and at the boxes of flasks and jars, and then at the shelves of herbs and berries and essences, and milk and blood and venom. The wall sconces had flared up into cool, yellow-white flames as soon as they entered the chamber, and the flickering reflections danced in the glossy surfaces of hundreds of different containers whilst rolls of rainbow-faceted lizard skins refracted the light like so many tiny prisms. Draco perched cautiously in one rickety chair and sighed.

"So, were either of you listening to these instructions?" he asked, since there seemed to be no way to avoid talking to the others. "I'm afraid I really wasn't paying attention." Justin Finch-Fletchley's distracting smile broadened at the admission.

"You're quite the rebel without a cause these days, aren't you?" Draco felt his jaw dropping. Hufflepuffs didn't talk to a person like this - and he certainly didn't remember this particular Hufflepuff having all this inappropriate self-confidence. Hogwarts really had gone to the dogs in his absence. "Well, you're in luck," Justin continued, and the inflection he put on the words startled Draco still further. "I was listening. I'll tell you what to do, if you ask me nicely." He wasn't imagining this -- a Hufflepuff was flirting with him. A male Hufflepuff, at that. It was conceivable that he had died and gone to hell, and nobody had actually told him.

"Did you really put a hex on Dean Thomas?" asked Neville. Draco straightened in the chair and treated the Gryffindor to a proper Malfoy sneer.

"What business is that of yours?"

"Well, none, really. But if you did, then I'd quite like to buy you a drink the next time we're in Hogsmeade." Draco certainly did nothing so undignified as gape, but the withering put-down he had been about to unleash was no longer remotely apposite.

"A drink?" he repeated, cautiously. "There seems to be a little misunderstanding here, Longbottom. I blighted Dean Thomas with as nasty a case of genital warts and halitosis as any spell ever produced. Granted, my first impulse had been to skin the little bastard alive and tear out his liver with my bare hands, but I had time to reflect, and I concluded that he really wasn't worth the risk of expulsion."

"Yes," said Neville with great satisfaction. "I thought there had to be more to it than the bad breath, but he wouldn't tell anyone the details. Genital warts. Good. A big drink."

"I don't drink with Gryffindors," snapped Draco, feeling thoroughly rattled. "I thought he was your little chum, Longbottom."

"No," said Neville. "I don't like practical jokes." There was, Draco could see, a story there, but he really didn't care to find out what it might be. He had already probably exchanged more words with Neville Longbottom than he had throughout the whole of fifth year. They stared at one another awkwardly for a moment, and then an odd expression crossed Neville's face. "By the way," he said uncertainly, "I'm sorry about your mum." Draco's throat closed up.

"Fuck off," he said in a strangled voice.

"Right. Sorry." There was another pause. Neville picked up one of the smaller glass flasks and turned it around in his fingers, and Draco braced himself for the inevitable sound of broken glass. Surprisingly, it didn't come. After a moment Neville added very quietly, "I used to wish that my mum would die. Or, you know, be normal again - but I couldn't really imagine that. So I used to sometimes just wish she'd die. " Nobody said anything for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice sounded like it had been scraped raw. "But then she did." His eyes met Draco's, and after a moment Draco looked away. It struck him suddenly that Neville did not look entirely unlike Goyle.

"If any more orphaned Gryffindors try to bond with me, I shall not be answerable for the consequences," Draco announced, shakily. Under absolutely no circumstances was he going to start snivelling. "Which part of 'Fuck Off' was it that you didn't grasp, Longbottom?"

"Right. Sorry," said Neville again. He turned away, and Draco caught himself just on the brink of apologising.

"Which part were you offering to demonstrate?" asked Justin, cutting through the tension rather neatly. Draco blinked. "Sorry, sorry. I think we're all a little - fraught. Please don't start getting all aggressive on my shapely Mudblood arse. Tempting though such a prospect may be. " Draco stared at him, and tried to recall any previous indications that Justin Finch-Fletchley was a screaming queen. He had never impinged greatly on Draco's consciousness; Draco rather thought he had always been a little camp, but certainly nothing on this scale. Clearly Justin had been rather busy over the past 8 months or so. "Of course, if you do intend to start giving lessons in either getting off or getting fucked," added Justin, with an irrepressible grin, "then I shall be doing my level best to transfer from Arithmancy at once. In fact I'm sure you'll have students queuing all down the corridor in their eagerness to sign up. Now there's one NEWT I'd stand a chance of doing well in. Especially the oral." Neville, who was studying the shelves closely and had his back to them, gave a stifled laugh, and Justin grinned. It was the sort of grin that dared Draco to laugh at himself, and after a moment he found himself smiling reluctantly. "Shall we get cracking with the thankless drudgery?"

The work was indeed both thankless and drudgery, but it was also very straight-forward. Draco found himself gradually relaxing and almost, although he was not about to admit it, enjoying it; there was something satisfying about successfully accomplishing such a simple physical task. Within half an hour all the little jars set aside for that purpose had been filled with preserved woundwort, and Neville had started on the valerian. The tension had gradually melted away, and the atmosphere in the stuffy little room was more peaceful than anything Draco could recall experiencing in months.

"So what did you do to merit a detention, then?" he asked Neville brusquely. Neville glanced up from his jars and responded to the expression on his face rather than the tone of his voice, and Draco couldn't decide whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Inappropriate use of herbs," Neville replied, with a small smile.

"Inappropriate use of - good grief, Longbottom, is this what passes for wickedness in Gryffindor? What did you do? Make parsley tea instead of Earl Grey?"

"No. No, it was - ah, more recreational than that." Neville grinned sheepishly. "Sometimes you just really need something to help you relax, you know?"

"Bloody hell," said Justin, starting to laugh. "Bloody hell. It's always the quiet ones."

"But Professor Sprout knows - she just turns a blind eye, so long as it doesn't interfere with anything else. In fact, I've been helping her with a lot of projects after class - there's a lot of work to be done right now. They've tripled the size of the greenhouses and they've been bringing in cuttings from all over the world this past summer." He bit his lip. "You know, I think that Professor Dumbledore knows about the smoking. And about Dean Thomas's still. I think he's just letting it go unless something really obvious happens. I'm sure there never used to be so many parties and so much drinking and stuff among the sixth and seventh years when we were in first year - even the fifth years, some of them. But - so much of the school work is geared up towards warfare that I think he's maybe willing to let us bend the rules a little in our spare time. We all know what's happening beyond Hogwarts. It's scary." There was a little pause, because none of them could deny the justice of this, and none of them particularly wanted to think about it very hard. "Anyway, I dropped a spliff in Potions class yesterday – there's a hole in the pocket of my robes, and when I tried to charm the hole smaller I just made the pocket smaller, and then I sort of forgot about it. Um. But I'd got a roll-up I'd only half smoked and it fell out. Professor Snape - well, he wasn't very impressed."

"No. I can imagine," agreed Draco with feeling. The recollection of his most recent Potions lesson still stung. Neville nodded unhappily. Draco looked at him, and at the neatly filled jars and flasks. "Professor Snape really does bring out the worst in you, doesn’t he? Why? He's just a teacher." Neville shivered.

"Not just a teacher. He's - I can't explain it. He's so mean," Neville said plaintively, after a pause. Draco laughed out loud.

"Longbottom, how old are you again?"

"No, I know. It's stupid. He used to terrify me - I mean, I used to have nightmares about him. Regularly. Do you know some of the things he did, though? When he was a Death Eater? Because I do."

Draco looked at Neville.

"Consider who you're asking," he said evenly.

"Oh. Right." There was an awkward pause. Draco stared at the bags of dried bloodroot and carefully did not think about Voldemort's mirror-lined room. "Did you ever - no, I don't want to know." He shivered. Draco wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

"I wasn't - directly - involved in many of the rituals," he said. "Only Death Eaters were trusted to - well. Yes. And I pretty much ran away straight after they put the mark on me, so I never really did - but I see what you mean." What he didn't mention was that he had been present at scores of rituals, even if he had not been directly involved. And perhaps 'straight after' was an exaggeration. But he really didn't want to think about what he'd done.

"My gran told me all about it when I was little. What they used to do. She went into - quite a lot of detail. Often. I used to hope I'd be a squib."

"Now that's stupid," said Justin sharply, pausing in the middle of filling a small blue jar. He stared at Neville. "Who in their right mind would want to be a Muggle? And being a squib would be a thousand times worse – I mean, then you know exactly what it is that you're missing."

"I suppose so," said Neville uncertainly. He frowned. "Your parents are Muggles, though. I'd have thought you'd understand." Justin reddened, and the look he shot Draco was difficult to read.

"It's one thing being born magical to non-magical parents," he said at last. "I mean, it's weird, but it's exciting and there's all this new stuff to learn. It's like you've always seen everything in black and white and not realised that colour existed." He rolled his eyes with a deprecating grin. "God, now I sound like Dorothy Gale." There was a puzzled little pause. Justin took in their blank expressions and his blush deepened. "And there I go again. Being a Muggle-born wizard - okay, it's like suddenly finding out you're nouveau riche, and that takes a little getting used to - I mean, there were Finch-Fletchleys in the Domesday Book. We're an old family, amongst Muggles, so suddenly learning that one's lineage was considered inadequate was -- interesting." He had his eyes fixed on Draco the whole time, and Draco could feel himself reddening too. Discretion had never been his forte, and he had proclaimed his views on the purity of wizard bloodlines - well, Lucius's views on the purity of wizard bloodlines - far and wide. It was one of many truths that he'd accepted unquestioningly. "But being a squib - that would be like being born dumb. I don't know how anyone lives with it."

"But magic's so dangerous," Neville blurted out. Draco stared at him, and Neville looked embarrassed and glanced away. He started to fiddle with the edge of the table. "Well it is. The Unforgiveable Curses are just – my God." He shivered, and there was another awkward pause. "But even everyday spells – Petrificus Totalus is hideous. You're completely helpless. People can do anything they want and there isn't a damned thing you can do about it. You have to pretend to be a good sport about having a moustache conjured on you, or glittery eyeshadow, or whatever they think is funny. And being transfigured by somebody else – that's really scary." Draco blanched. "And weightlessness, and being cursed with flu, or non-stop hiccups – it's little stuff, but it can all be horrible." Neville was almost shaking. "Practical jokes. Muggles don't have to worry about any of that stuff. They have war and, and plague and things, but they don't have to worry about one of their so-called friends casting a spell so that they wake up with a snout like a pig's, or, or start farting every time they see the girl they like."

"Dean Thomas?" asked Draco, perfectly certain that Neville was speaking from personal experience.

"I – uh," said Neville, reddening. "I didn't mean – well. Yes. Fred and George, and Seamus, and Dean. There are lots of people who think it's hilarious to play practical jokes. I – I don't happen to agree."

If he hadn't been so forcibly reminded of his brief sojourne as a ferret Draco would probably have found some of those images amusing too, but to his own surprise and against all precedent he felt himself feeling almost pissed off on Neville Longbottom's behalf. Clearly, he reflected bemusedly, doomsday was at hand, and there were ski resorts being opened up in Hell.

Justin, however, remained unconvinced. He looked almost angry about it. "No, Neville. Muggles might not worry about having spells cast on them, but that's just because they don't know what's out there. They're living in a fool's paradise, and it's only going to last until the next time an evil wizard starts attacking Muggles. Which isn't very long, as far as I can see." Draco was startled by the tone of Justin's voice. "In fact, guess what, it's already happening. And they're terrifyingly vulnerable, and they don't even know it. Yet. But they sure as hell will do soon. Being magicless is just being powerless, Neville. It isn't being safe. Nobody's safe any more. Here we are making up emergency medical kits, for God's sake."

"Well, thanks for depressing the hell out of us all," said Draco after a rather bleak silence. Justin met his eyes and gave an apologetic grimace.

"Sorry. That wasn't one of my more upbeat moments, was it? It's a sort of sore point, I suppose. You want to try spending the summer in the Muggle world with nothing between you and the forces of the Dark Lord but the hope that he's still recharging since his last defeat. It's enough to give anyone a sense of humour breakdown." He shrugged. "Still, no need to get on my soap box. Besides, all that worry just gives you wrinkles, and heaven knows that's so unattractive." His laugh was a little strained. "Enough already."

"So why exactly are you here, then?" Neville asked tentatively. Justin's smile broadened, and he leaned forward with both elbows on the table and his long fingers laced together under his chin.

"This is like 'The Breakfast Club,' isn't it?" he said. "We just need a bratty little glamour witch and a book worm. And a nice big strapping Quidditch player."

"What are you talking about?" asked Draco disdainfully. "Breakfast Club? Is this another Muggle thing?" To Draco's surprise the Hufflepuff reddened, and for a moment Draco was sure he was going to snap. He found himself suddenly miserable at the thought of a row, but Draco simply couldn't seem to stop himself from needling people. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. "So what did you do to earn the honour of our company?" he asked hurriedly. Justin looked at him, and a heartbeat later his scowl melted into a lascivious grin.

"Got caught," he said. Draco sighed melodramatically, but he felt embarrassingly relieved that they weren't arguing after all. It was difficult to keep from grinning.

"Well, yes - that's pretty self-evident," he said, and he was grinning. "Caught doing what, though?"

"Whom."

"I'm sorry?"

"The question you're looking for is: 'Caught doing whom?' And the answer would be Maximilian Mountjoy. You remember Max - he was one of the Ravenclaw Beaters? Graduated three years ago, but I always had this terrible crush on him and when I saw him in Hogsmeade I couldn't resist trying my luck. He plays for the Brentford Bats these days, of course - still got those inner thigh muscles from all that flying. And he certainly knows what to do with his broomstick," added Justin archly. He was looking straight at Draco. "I've always had a weakness for Quidditch players."

Neville Longbottom was blushing scarlet, Draco noticed. He rather suspected that he was going a similar shade himself.

"I see," he said inadequately, ignoring the implications of that last remark. "And you were caught - ?"

"Having sex in public. With a man. Yes."

"Where?" asked Draco. Like it mattered. He was acutely aware that he had been looking Justin in the eyes for rather too long now.

"Would you believe that it was in the alley beside 'The Three Broomsticks'? Quite sordid, I know, but we'd been drinking and we got a little - ah - carried away. Unfortunately Professor Snape walked past at a rather inconvenient moment. Still, at least it wasn't a reporter, eh? Although I suppose I could have made a pretty penny from The Daily Prophet, if kiss and tell were my line. The Bats are doing very well this year."

Draco was trying to convince himself that there was nothing wrong with maintaining eye contact for this length of time with another boy, and he was failing.

"You shagged a celebrity?" said Neville, sounding thoroughly pole axed. But not, Draco noticed, unduly surprised by the gender of the celebrity. Clearly Justin Finch Fletchley's reputation had undergone some serious changes in Draco's absence. "You got them to serve you alcohol? And you shagged a celebrity? In Hogsmeade? In public? You're taking the piss."

"No, I'm really not." Draco glanced down at Justin's mouth, and then back into his eyes. "Although I could probably be persuaded," Justin added.

"Good grief. What on earth happened to you after I left the school?" Draco exclaimed. "I'm sure you were never - or were you already - ?" Justin laughed. It was a laugh that Draco could grow to like rather quickly: warm and self-deprecating. Sexy, in fact. If one liked that kind of thing.

"The closet got too cramped. Me, the fur coats, the fir trees, the magic lion." Draco blinked. "I reached the conclusion that life is too damned short, especially in these uncertain times. So I'm here, I'm queer, and I'm drinking butterbeer. Lock up your sons. Oh, relax, Neville. I don't bite. Well, not unless you ask very nicely."

"Sorry. Sorry, I didn't mean - sorry," said Neville. "I just haven't ever - ah. I mean. But it's fine if you want to - ah. And obviously I know, because you're not exactly being subtle about it any more, so, but I've never. Um. Sorry. Some of my best friends are – well, no. But Uncle Gideon was always very fey, and gran calls him a confirmed batchelor, so I suppose -- um. I'm babbling. Sorry." Justin looked at him quite hard, and then relented.

"S'okay. Whatever. A person does get tired of being practically the only openly ay person in the building." He was looking at Draco as he said this, and Draco had no doubt that he was now several shades redder than Neville Longbottom. "But if I didn't want to have people whispering about me or shooting me nervous glances, I should have stayed in the dratted closet. You haven't been acting like a tit, Neville. I'm just being a trifle obnoxious. But I do it so well!" he added, disarmingly. Neville laughed. Justin grinned. Draco felt unexpectedly warm. "Pass the powdered flobberworm, will you?"


	10. Chapter 10

"Are you coming to the party?"

Draco looked at Neville quizzically.

"Since this is the first I've heard of it, Longbottom, I think we can safely take that as a 'no'. Perhaps my owl got lost en route to the breakfast table." He was surprised at how bitter he sounded. Neville looked painfully earnest.

"You should come," he said. There was an awkward little pause. "I'm inviting you, if you need an invitation. There. It's not good, being alone so much. There'll be Slytherins there, and Ravenclaws, and everyone - it's not just a Gryffindor thing. You've done more for the allies than the rest of them put together." Draco stared. "I mean, you stood up to your father, and to You Know Who. You should come."

"Why, Neville. I didn't know you cared." Draco was trying for his trademark sarcasm, but he felt off balance and it came through in his voice. Neville Longbottom grinned at him hopefully.

"Really, you should come. It will be fun," he said, and Draco was almost entirely sure that he actually believed it. Extraordinary.

"Well. We'll see," said Draco. "I may be busy."

 

* * *

 

There were spells of misdirection and sound-muffling woven around the corridors; Draco didn't suppose for a moment that Dumbledore was unaware of the sixth years' party, but the headmaster liked to turn a blind eye when it suited him, and this was the sort of thing he would cheerfully ignore unless things got spectacularly out of hand. Draco remembered parties of years gone by; there had only been one occasion when teacher interference had been necessary, with Blaise Zabini getting herself knocked unconscious by a bludger during an intoxicated and impromptu game of indoor Quidditch. Dumbledore really hadn't seen the funny side of that.

Now that he was close enough Draco could hear the eerie rhythms of Muggle music vibrating through the walls. Gate-crashing was not generally his style, because it did allow for the possibility of humiliation. On the other hand, Draco couldn't face another night alone in his room, jumping at shadows - and having a house elf for one's only friend was surely not healthy. In all probability this was a really, really bad idea, but Draco had been embracing bad ideas a lot lately and it seemed silly to stop now. He ran slender fingers over the cool stone until he reached the hidden pressure point and pushed against it gently. The stone dissolved into insubstantial ripples of translucent colour and Draco stepped through them into the noise and smoke and smells of the sixth years' unofficial Halloween party.

 

* * *

 

Draco strode into the dimly lit room wearing his best fuck-you-very-much expression: a Mona Lisa sneer that complemented his carriage to perfection. It was almost enough to persuade people that he was still somebody whose approval they needed to court. Almost. Blaise Zabini, her pupils vast and her smile vacant, began talking to him at one point, and her manner was entirely that of her old self, with no awkwardness at all. Draco felt a momentary surge of optimism, but realized within seconds that she was charmed up to the gills, and was labouring under the misapprehension that they were both still fifth years. And, it soon transpired, that he was Pansy Parkinson. He briefly considered staying with her anyway, because the illusion was surprisingly tempting and having somebody prepared to talk to him made such a pleasant change - but in the end his pride got the better of him, and he walked away.

Draco's faux-purposeful stride took him around a corner and brought him face to face with the thoroughly unappetising vision of Potter investigating Chang's tonsils. Draco grimaced and changed direction, but it was too late: Potter's half-closed eyes snapped open and he pulled away from his girlfriend, scowling incredulously. He actually looked surprisingly hot once he'd stopped fumbling inexpertly with the Ravenclaw. His mouth was slightly swollen and smudged with the remnants of Chang's lipstick; from the hectic flush of his cheeks, Draco wouldn't have been surprised to hear that he'd had a drink or two. Miracles would never cease.

It struck Draco that The Boy Who Lived had somehow developed into The Man Who Had Learned To Live A Little, And Who Was Actually Rather Devilishly Attractive, If One Liked Tall, Dark and Handsome Cliches. It was just a pity about the personality.

"How did - no, never mind." Potter rose to his feet with a thoroughly forbidding expression on his face. Cho Chang looked somewhat put out. "You're not welcome here," he said pointedly. Draco sighed, but inwardly he felt oddly cheerful. In an uncertain world, this at least was one reliably familiar thing.

"Always the cheap theatricals, Potter. Don't you ever grow weary of this constant machismo? And did I ask you to stop whatever it is you're doing to Miss Chang? No, I did not. Please do continue with - well, whatever that was supposed to be. Artificial respiration, perhaps? However poor a job you're making of it, I'm sure it's a better use of your mouth than conversation has ever been."

"I'm onto you, Malfoy."

"How terrifying," Draco said gravely. "You know, I rather think I need a drink to steady my nerves in the face of your fearsome perspicacity. Well, don't let me keep you."

He turned and made his way unhurriedly towards the cauldron of disconcertingly pink punch. He filled up a tankard and knocked it back ruthlessly, and then filled it up again and went exploring.

 

* * *

 

The stone wall had been cold against his back, but by the fourth glass Draco was finding the punch an effective way of numbing the sensation. Merlin only knew what was in it, but Draco would have been perfectly sanguine about drinking hemlock at this point. The buzz of bickering with Potter had faded all too quickly in the face of his isolation.

Nobody was talking to him. He had stalked around the three rooms long enough to establish that most of the fifth, sixth and seventh years of all the Houses were present, but none of them were falling over themselves to talk to him.

About him, yes. To him, no.

Eventually he had found a little niche far enough from the candles and spluttering flambeaux that he was almost hidden in the shadows, and he had propped himself against the wall to watch the world go by in unconscious imitation of Severus Snape's pose in the Infirmary. Most people didn't even realise he was there, and this gave him ample opportunity to wonder why the blazes he had come. And why he had come back to Hogwarts, for that matter.

Blaise Zabini was doing unspeakable things to some nameless and delighted Ravenclaw boy, Potter was wrapped around Chang like a second skin, and Weasley and Granger were engaged in some strange Gryffindor mating ritual that involved standing just inside one another's personal space and blushing a lot but not actually doing anything more carnal than talking. At one point Esme Millington led a small conga line of male Quidditch players through one of the doors and out into the corridor. Draco watched the other students milling happily around him and felt profoundly empty. He would almost, in fact, have preferred to be in the library.

It was an eloquent indication of how far Draco had come down in the world that he cheered up slightly at the sight of Neville Longbottom making his way over towards the punch bowl. He watched Neville carefully fill a tankard up, spill a little punch in the process, painstakingly dry the sides of the cup with one corner of his robe, turn around and then go suddenly rigid. Draco followed his gaze and saw the Weasley girl making sheep's eyes at Seamus Finnegan. He glanced back at Neville Longbottom and was a little taken aback by the naked misery on his chubby face. Like that, was it?

"Hey, Longbottom," he called, before he could stop himself. Neville jumped, and some of the pink liquid sloshed over the rim of the tankard. He stared at the little puddle on the flagstones and then looked around. "Over here," said Draco, wondering what had possessed him. Neville squinted.

"Malfoy?"

"The very same." Neville's expression was difficult to read. "Got any cigarettes?" asked Draco, much to his own surprise. It was a reasonable conversational gambit, marred only by the fact that he didn't smoke. Neville relaxed a little.

"Yes. D'you want one?"

"I'm hardly being eaten up with random curiosity about the contents of your pockets, Longbottom. Of course I want one. Why else would I have asked?" Charm was still not one of Draco's strengths. For a moment he thought that Neville was going to just walk away, but then the Gryffindor shrugged and made his way over to the alcove.

"Hang on," he said. "Hold this, would you?" Draco took the proffered tankard in his free hand and watched whilst Neville rummaged around in his pockets. Eventually he produced a battered packet of Nero's Wizarding Cigarettes and offered it to Draco.

"And you're expecting me to take that using my little-known third hand, are you?" asked Draco, gesticulating with the two tankards. Neville looked embarrassed and hurriedly plucked a cigarette out of the pack and lifted it towards Draco's mouth. "Oh, for crying out loud, man, have you no spine at all?" Draco exclaimed. Neville froze, the cigarette wobbling between his finger and thumb, and Draco's belly tightened suddenly with something not unlike guilt. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I am a complete bastard. That wasn't - here, have your drink back. I think you could use it." Neville took the tankard and gave Draco the blasted cigarette. "Thanks."

"It's not my drink," said Neville, clasping it awkwardly. "It's Ginny's. She asked me to go and get a refill for her."

"Ginny's. I see." Draco looked thoughtfully across the room. Ginny Weasley was either saving Finnegan's life with the application of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in a novel standing position, or else she was snogging the fellow's tonsils off.

"I don't drink."

"I see," repeated Draco. "Longbottom, I have a feeling that this might be a good time to start. And possibly also to break out your, ah, special cigarettes, if you have any left."

"I gave my last one to - "

"Let me guess. Ginny Weasley. Right? Right. Sweet weeping swine of Circe, Longbottom! You really must stop being such a doormat. It's very unbecoming." Neville bit his lip. Draco was finding all this an almost pleasant distraction from his own life. Playing the role of Gryffindor confidant was something of a novelty. "She's not the only fish in the sea," he added encouragingly. "Weasel in the woods. Whatever."

"I think I love her," Neville said in a small voice. Draco sighed.

"You poor bastard. You don't love her. You're just lonely, so you're letting her screw you over in the hopes that she might let you screw her in return. Not going to happen, Longbottom. She's using you. Forget about her." He looked the boy up and down. "You're not that bad, you know. I mean, you're still lardy, but you've got some muscle on you too and you're quite tall. I've seen uglier blokes pull girls prettier than your little ginger hussy. If Goyle could manage to get off with someone, then I'm sure you can. You just want to have a bit of self confidence." He sounded, Draco realised with some amusement, much like The Daily Prophet's Agony Aunt.

"Thank you. I think." Draco was a little surprised to hear the dryness in Neville's tone. He looked at the other boy and smiled.

"Cheers," he said, clinking his tankard against Neville's. Neville looked at it dubiously. "Oh, go on, live a little. She's got your bloody fags, after all."

"Okay. Right. Cheers." There was a little pause whilst they both swallowed the mysterious punch. Neville leaned back against the wall at Draco's side, half hidden in the shadows. He sighed.

"She likes Seamus. I know that. I mean, I understand. He's funny, if you like – well. He likes to make people laugh. Girls like him. But she's really nice to me sometimes, and I just - I'm stupid. I know I am. But it's hard." Draco snorted. "No, I didn't mean - shut up," he protested, half laughing. He stared back at Ginny wrapped around Seamus and his smile melted away again. "Aren't you lonely?" Neville asked after a moment.

"Certainly not," snapped Draco. Neville looked at him. "Oh, fuck off. It isn't - I know it looks great, but it's all bullshit anyway. You can't trust anyone." He watched several couples walk by and then laughed. "Although that's no reason not to get laid, I suppose. But people just use you, Longbottom. They use you or you use them. That's all there is to it. Ginny Weasley is using you. You shouldn't stand for it." Neville rubbed the heel of his hand against the corner of his eye and took another swig of the punch.

"You're wrong," he said. "Maybe I am being stupid about Ginny. But you're wrong about people. It isn't always like that. So - cold. Sometimes there's love."

"No," Draco said, startled by his own anger. "No there isn't. It's all a big stupid lie, Longbottom. Don't be so naive." Neville looked at him narrowly.

"You're wrong," he repeated with surprising firmness. Draco stared, torn between the impulse to snap at Neville and an inexplicable temptation to laugh out loud at his unexpected effrontery. In the end the fight went out of him and he simply sagged against the wall. He felt terribly empty.

"Well, that would be nice," he admitted after a while, and his voice sounded unsteady. He cleared his throat. "I'd like to be wrong. But I don't think I am. Still, there's always alcohol. And sex. And acts of random cruelty. Life could be worse." Neville looked back at him and gave a lopsided grin.

"Well, two out of three isn't bad." Draco, swallowing the dregs of his punch, choked.

"Which…? Look, Longbottom, we're engaged in conversation, not copulation – and I'll have you know I'm practicing acts of unprecedented kindness to Gryffindors here," he pointed out indignantly. Neville's grin widened.

"I see. This is what you're like when you're being nice?" Draco hadn't been teased like this for a while. A long while. Pansy used to tease him sometimes, but he hadn't spoken to Pansy Parkinson in months. He found that he was close to smiling.

"This is what I'm like when I'm being nice. If you tell anyone that I am capable of being nice, however, I shall take great delight in making you vomit up cockroaches. So there. You've been warned. Nicely."

"Fair enough. Oh, look - she's looking for me." Neville sounded suddenly guilt-stricken. "I bet she's wondering where her drink is." Draco followed his gaze back to Ginny Weasley. Seamus had stopped snogging her long enough to start talking animatedly to Dean Thomas and waving his hands around a lot, and the little redhead was looking around with a frown wrinkling her brow. Draco winced.

"Longbottom! Are you a man or a house elf?"

"I'm her friend, Draco. I'd better go."

"Fine." Draco was a little surprised by how put out he felt. "You're cramping my style anyway." Neville looked at him uncertainly. "Go on. Piss off. Wouldn't want to keep you from your real friends."

"I didn't mean - um. Sorry."

"Go away."

"I'll see you later?"

"Whatever."

"Look - I'm glad you came." Draco watched him hurry back to the punch bowl, wiping the lip of the cup ineffectually with the hem of his robe before he filled it. It was impossible to believe that his parents had been hot-shot aurors back in the day. Draco scowled, pushed himself away from the wall, and strode off in search of a more peaceful spot to brood.


	11. Chapter 11

The sudden intimacy of a body plastered up behind him and arms wrapping around his chest and waist shocked Draco speechless. It struck him then that, other than his undignified arrival at Hogwarts slung over Hagrid's shoulder, nobody had touched him for days. Weeks. Possibly months; unless one counted being held in place while one's father cut runes into one's skin, and in Draco's opinion that didn't exactly constitute human contact. His skin welcomed the touch like parched grass welcomed rain, and he had to remind himself that it meant nothing. It occurred to Draco a little belatedly that the body was quite emphatically male, and that this wasn't supposed to be something he liked, or admitted to liking; he shivered, and braced himself for the recoil when whoeveritwas realised that they had mistaken him for someone else.

It didn't come.

"So, have you ever slept with a Mudblood, Malfoy?" Justin Finch-Fletchley's voice was pitched low, and he sounded entirely too cocky for a Hufflepuff. Draco leaned automatically back into the welcoming warmth and felt Finch-Fletchley's arms tighten around him; this had the perverse effect of making his bones feel liquid even as other parts of his body decided this would be an excellent time to firm up into positively granite hardness.

"I wouldn't dream of lowering myself so far," he said unevenly. Laughter gusted against the nape of his neck and a moment later he felt a satiny pressure on his earlobe. Lips, followed by the darting warmth of Justin's tongue and then the gentle nip of teeth.

"You are so full of shit," whispered Justin, still quivering with laughter.

"You noticed?"

"I noticed. That's not all I noticed."

"I see. Still, you seem to be under the misapprehension that I'm gay," Draco said conversationally. He was finding it a little difficult to breathe, and his mouth was set to autopilot whilst his brain screamed out that they were in public, in an archway where anyone might see them, and that whatever their inclinations Malfoys didn't ever ever admit to flying for this particular team. Lucius would be absolutely livid, he reflected nervously - and then remembered a heartbeat later that this was no longer a bad thing. Indeed, that all in all it might be classified as a good thing.

"That's right," agreed Justin, dragging one thumbnail in lazy circles over Draco's belly. Draco bit his lip, but didn't pull away.

"Gay," he repeated. "Despite the fact that I have had two - no, three - relationships at Hogwarts. With girls. Not boys. Not - oh! Ah. That is, I don't - I mean - Oh!" Draco found that his mouth was dry and his mind was blank and his body was doing absolutely nothing to fly the flag for heterosexuality. He had definitely been saying something before Justin unfastened two of the buttons of his shirt and slid a cool hand inside. Before the other hand slid south.

"I was saying - I was - what was I saying?" he asked, and was instantly mortified. His cool, it appeared, had left the building. Justin sniggered. Draco made a profoundly undignified noise and consigned common sense to perdition. All things considered, his reputation couldn't really get any more ruined than it already was.

"I think you were saying you were camper than a row of pink tents and that your life's ambition was to be bent over a desk and shagged senseless by a Mudblood. Weren't you?" Draco shivered again.

"You realise that I shall resort to Cruciatus if this is all a joke?" he said in a tone more brittle than he'd intended. Fuck.

"Fair enough."

"Good." Draco tried to turn around, but Justin wouldn't let go. There was a brief tussle punctuated with breathless snorts of laughter until at last Draco had managed to wriggle right around in the embrace. The wriggling had gone some way to convincing Draco that even if Finch-Fletchley were just taking the piss, the arousal was definitely mutual.

"Hello," he said, smiling despite himself.

"Enough small talk," said Justin, and kissed him.

It was like and unlike kissing a girl, and Justin needed to shave, and Draco couldn't remember having been so turned on before. Ever. Full blown sex had never felt this sexy, and they were simply snogging and groping up against a wall. Sing it from the rooftops: Draco Malfoy liked boys. Not that this was exactly a revelation, but it was one of the many things he had been very carefully not thinking about, or at least admitting to, for quite some time.

"Where?" he asked, some moments later. Justin let him lean back a little, but kept one finger possessively hooked in the waist of his trousers and one hand gently pressed in the small of his back.

"So much for the precious Malfoy purity, eh?" said Justin unkindly. He darted forward again and licked Draco's throat, and Draco shuddered.

"Shut up," he said.

"Oh, but I've been thinking about this, Draco. It's too delicious for words. I know lots of boys like you at home. Pretty Muggle boys. You're so obvious, Draco."

"Shut up," said Draco, and kissed him again, hard. His long fingers skated down Justin's shirt sleeves and caught the narrow wrists and then Draco had the other boy pinned up against the cold stone. Never let it be said Draco Malfoy was a slow learner.

"We need to be somewhere more private," Draco said softly after a little while. "Now." Justin laughed, but his breathing was as unsteady as Draco's. Draco could feel Justin's heartbeat echoing in his own chest cavity.

"So you're not gay, then?" Justin taunted.

"I am Draco Malfoy," said Draco, with all the stiff-necked pride of his father's son. He stepped back and glared at Justin. "I shall sleep with whomever I damned well please, be they man, woman or aardvark. But perhaps I should take the opportunity to embrace my newfound inner poof with someone a little more -- deserving." He sounded almost perfectly casual. Justin, however, clearly wasn't buying it. He laughed out loud, and leaned in to kiss Draco again; a demanding and expert little kiss that promised all manner of unspeakably sinful things. Draco returned it with interest.

"Pull the other one," Justin said comfortably. "It's got bells on."

"I rather thought I'd pulled the right one already," replied Draco. He shifted his hips with a lascivious wriggle that rubbed Justin until he gasped. Draco smiled.

"You have," said Justin with feeling.

"Good." He'd pulled a male, mudblood Hufflepuff: the very epitome of ineligibility, but Draco's body evidently liked that. Very much indeed. Lucius would have died. "Now, as I was saying, we need somewhere more private. Unless you're afraid to put your - money - where your mouth is?" They had been remarkably lucky so far, but it was only a matter of time before someone caught them in a clinch, and Draco was in no hurry to announce his liaison to all and sundry just yet.

"Hardly. This way."

Justin kissed him again, briefly, and then eased past him and out into the corridor. Draco curled his fingers into fists to keep from reaching out and pulling Justin back; for a moment it felt unbearably cold without the firm body pressed up against him. He watched Justin walk away and admitted to himself that this was not the first time that he had eyed up another boy. Hell, since he was indulging in a burst of unaccustomed honesty, this was not even the first time he had eyed up Justin Finch-Fletchley. He adjusted his trousers slightly, bit back a smile and sauntered along at a comfortable distance behind, appreciating the view. After a moment or two Justin reached a doorway, pushed it lazily open without looking back, and stepped inside.

Draco was conscious of other students at the far end of the corridor, and although the hallway was shadowy and the students were unlikely to be either sober or curious, still he did his best to seem nonchalant. After perhaps a minute he reached the door: a store cupboard, unless he was much mistaken. Just like being fifteen all over again - only this time it wasn't Blaise Zabini. He wrapped shaky fingers around the door handle and stepped into the darkness.

Hands closed around his wrist and pulled him deeper into the room as the door swung shut behind him, and, before Draco's eyes had any opportunity to adjust to the dim starlight seeping through the tiny window, he was tugged stumbling through empty space, rebounded against the shelves and finally found himself shoved up against a wall. His breath was ragged: half laughing, half not. After a moment of clutching clumsily at anonymous angles and curves they got their bodies aligned just right. Justin's lips found his cheekbone, then his nose, and finally the corner of his laughing mouth, and then it was all urgent kissing and bump and grind whilst unseen fingers wriggled inside clothes and encountered deliciously unfamiliar skin. Long minutes passed, punctuated by sounds other than speech.

"Stop," said Justin. Draco felt his guts clenching with a sudden inchoate dread that this was like the boggart all over again; that he'd been well and truly taken for a fool. He waited. Justin's mouth found his ear and warm breath tickled his jawbone. "I want to see you naked."

"Oh," was all Draco could think of to say. He was already in a state of considerable dishabille, and now that his eyes were accustomed to the dim light he could more or less see Justin was in a similar condition. Not that he needed his eyes to tell him that.

"Lumos," whispered Justin Finch-Fletchley, and a softly glowing will o'the wisp of witch-light bobbed up towards the ceiling, where it hung like a domesticated moon and illuminated their cosily debauched little scene. Justin stepped back and took in the picture of Draco with his shirt half unbuttoned and his trousers slipping down his hips. He whistled appreciatively. "Christ. You're gorgeous."

"I know," said Draco with an outrageous smile. He felt oddly relieved, despite the fact that nothing had actually happened to reassure him; but it just felt so familiar, this intimacy. Draco was positive it wasn't a game. Meaningless, to be sure, but nothing more complicated than sex.

"Yes, you do, don't you, you cocky little bastard? Come here." Justin kissed him again. Draco slid his hands back down the back of the other boy's trousers and made a small, urgent noise when their bellies bumped together. "Not so fast. I want to see you naked. Can I?"

"Yes," said Draco, recklessly. He tugged at his skewed tie and Justin made a dark sound in the back of his throat that was just this side of a growl. Draco smiled and struck a pose, then glanced coquettishly up through lowered lashes as he wriggled out of his shoes without unlacing them properly. He let his trousers pool around his feet and then stepped out of them, feeling the cool air raise goosebumps on his exposed skin. The soft tension of elastic as cotton boxer shorts slid down his thighs and then dropped down to join the rest of his sloughed-off clothing was a thoroughly delicious sensation. He was thinner than he had been in a long time, but Draco knew he still looked good naked and both the expression on Justin's face and the way he pressed the heel of his hand down against the bump in his trousers confirmed it. The shirt was still flapping around him in a parody of seemliness as he crouched and peeled off his socks, and as he rose gracefully back up and shrugged the shirt off Justin stepped back into his arms and kissed him ravenously. The plasterwork was cold against Draco's spine, the stones were colder under his feet and the fabric of Justin's robe and V-neck jumper was scratchy against his skin, but there was something inescapably sexy about being so thoroughly exposed whilst Justin was still fully dressed. It was, Draco realised even as Justin's hands slid possessively over the planes of his chest, another dumb leap of faith - like activating his grandfather's Seven-League Boots and throwing himself upon Dumbledore's mercy. He didn't know how to reconcile these impulses with the fearfulness that had him jumping at shadows in his own room.

Justin's hands with their bitten nails quickly took Draco's thoughts away from anything but the present moment, and very soon Draco's brain decided to bow out entirely and leave his loins in charge of decision-making. It was a blessed relief.

"I want to do - something," said Justin Finch-Fletchley a little later, at a moment when Draco felt that conversation was entirely extraneous.

"Anything," he gasped. "God. Anything. Just don't take your hand away." Justin's face was pressed into the satiny warmth of Draco's sharp collarbone and his laughter vibrated through Draco's skin.

"You're so cheap."

"Yes. But don't stop."

"What if I do something - better?" Draco moaned, and it was only a sharp pressure from Justin's clever fingers that kept him from rendering any further discussion moot. "I want to do something," Justin repeated in a honeyed rasp that promised bad things. "Say yes."

"Yes."

"Good. Give me your wrists." Draco's brain made the most flickering of attempts to assert its authority again, but was immediately overruled by his libido. His wrists were offered up at once, and Justin promptly bound them up with Draco's discarded tie.

The moment he realised what was happening Draco shuddered uncontrollably. He'd had absolutely no idea how much he was going to like that, and considering how hard he was trying to keep control of his life at present it seemed perfectly ridiculous. Draco's body, however, had absolutely no truck with logic. He stared silently across the empty air towards Justin's hungry face and bit his own lower lip hard. Justin smiled and lifted Draco's hands gently over his head. Draco felt them catch on something, and glancing up he saw a row of cloak hooks, one of which was now supporting his weight. He could, he saw, unhook himself without great difficulty if he so desired. Or he could let it take his weight, and pretend none of this was his idea. It was perversely liberating.

Justin Finch-Fletchley's teeth on his nipple drew another groan from him. Draco hadn't realised he was looking for this, but he was shaking with the need to feel himself touched and known and mastered and accepted, and if this did somehow turn out to be another joke like the boggart then there would be simply no bearing it. Long fingers traced patterns over his ribcage and dipped down towards his thighs and up towards his raised elbows, stroking Draco luxuriantly until he moaned and squirmed and undulated under the possessive touch, rubbing helplessly up against Justin, desperate for a little more friction. The mix of textures against his skin made him gasp. As did the gradual descent of Justin's slightly chapped lips and warm tongue over the surface of Draco's chest and belly and -

"Fuck, yes," exclaimed Draco with heartfelt sincerity as Justin Finch-Fletchley swallowed him whole. Blaise Zabini had never been able to manage that.

Justin's hands curved around his hips, fingernails digging ragged half-moons into his bottom and the elegant thumbs lying flat across the wings of Draco's sharp hip bones, holding him in place when he started to shift and writhe and buck and moan. Justin really was criminally good at this.

Draco didn't realise how much noise he was making until the door to the corridor burst open. His half-lidded eyes snapped wide in time to register Harry Potter stumbling to a halt just inside the doorway and Ron Weasley bumping into him. Draco's gaze locked on Harry's astonished green eyes and there was just time to think disjointedly that yes, Harry Potter did look pretty damned hot with his cheeks flushed from drinking and his mouth glossy with someone else's kisses, before Draco lost all ability to think in sentences.

When he opened his eyes again, Potter and Weasley were gone and the door was closed once more. For the life of him Draco couldn't say whether he'd just imagined their appearance, and he absolutely didn't want to start thinking about what that might imply. Meanwhile his whole body was still zinging in the aftermath, tiny explosions of sensation making muscles spasm softly and his chilled skin tingle. He felt dazed, and sated, and unexpectedly grateful. Worrying about Potter could wait a little while.

Justin pulled away, brushing the back of his hand over his own messy mouth as he rose, and then Draco had the odd sensation of tasting himself on Justin's tongue. He felt loose-limbed and pliable and wanted nothing more than to pull on some warm clothes and curl up in a bed somewhere. Possibly (and this would assuredly be a lowering thought when he'd recovered his temporarily forgotten pride) with Justin.

"I think we were seen," said Draco a little hoarsely. "Just now. Um. I think." He was still tied up; perhaps he ought to do something about that. If he stood on his toes he could probably unhook the tie from the peg himself.

"Yes. So I gather." The expression on Justin's face abruptly reminded Draco that the satiation was presently one-sided, and he grew still. "This is getting to be a habit." Justin's voice was pure sex, and Draco made a swift mental readjustment as Justin's fingers skimmed over his flanks and went exploring until Draco gasped. "Well, if I'm going to get detention again, I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, don't you think?" Draco blinked. "Are you game?"

"Yes," said Draco, who seemed to have forgotten how to say No. This was uncharted territory.

"Good." He realised that he was shifting skittishly in his bonds and tried very hard to relax; but this wasn't easy with Justin's fingers sliding around his intimate places and slyly introducing him to nerve endings he hadn't realised existed.

 

* * *

 

"Is Justin all right?"

Harry stared at Cho, and could feel himself blushing crimson. He didn't dare meet Ron's eyes. Neither of them had said a word since the door swung closed again.

"Yes," he said in a stifled voice. She looked at him oddly.

"Harry?" Hermione's expression was difficult to read, but the merest thought of explaining how little Justin had seemed to need rescuing from imminent death-by-Malfoy made Harry cringe.

"He's fine. They're fine. We're all - fine. Um." He couldn't help noticing that Ron wasn't helping here. He glanced at Ron, and then glanced quickly away again. "Um," he repeated. It was, of course, possible that Draco had cast some sort of spell on Justin - but given Justin's track record with inappropriate men, and considering their relative, ah, positions, and the whole bondage thing - well, it seemed unlikely. "Did you know that Draco was gay?" he blurted out. Cho stared at him, and then she and Hermione both cracked up.

"Oh my God, Harry. What did you see? Ron? What - you're kidding, right? Justin and Draco? Draco Malfoy? That's priceless. Justin really must be drunk."

"Why?" asked Harry too quickly, and then realised that his question had come out all wrong when he saw the expressions on the three faces turned towards him.

"Harry Potter! Now the truth is finally coming out," gasped Hermione. She was laughing so hard she could barely speak. "The love that dare not speak its name! You'd better watch your back, Ron - unless it's just evil Slytherin blonds that push Harry's buttons."

"No - I - stop laughing! I just meant, I mean, I know he's an utter git but at least he's rich - or was rich - and, you know, good looking. And it's not like Justin's dating him, they're just - No! No, damn it, you know what I mean," he protested laughingly, but he felt oddly annoyed. Ron appeared to be in some danger of choking on his own tongue. "I mean Justin's already made moves on some pretty unlikely people before now without being drunk. I guess there isn't that much, ah, choice here. Not many people who are - you know. Like that. That's all I meant. God."

"So what did you see?" asked Cho. Harry blanched.

"Wild horses wouldn't drag it out of me. But - ah - they both seemed to be enjoying it. As far as I could see."

"It was revolting," chimed in Ron with feeling. He glanced at Hermione and then looked hurriedly away. "I don't know how he could - urgh. Really. Urgh."

"Yes," said Harry.

He couldn't get the image out of his head: Draco's back arching off the wall and the almost luminous pallor of his angular body; the nipples so innocently, so unexpectedly pink; the blossoming evidence of ungentle kisses bruising the pale skin of his arms and throat and belly; the half-open mouth and the way he was moving with such sinuous urgency whilst Justin did - well, whatever Justin was doing. As if he didn't know what Justin was doing. At least they hadn't actually seen Draco's - at least they hadn't seen any details of - that. He had never seen anyone look so totally naked. Not just being naked, but really looking naked. And - used. That was the word. Used. But willingly.

Draco was always hidden by layers of clothes and mannerisms and brittle walls of words, but just now he had been naked in every possible way.

"It was disgusting," agreed Harry, looking at Cho and not seeing her at all.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco woke up to the smell of coffee and the skull-pounding pain of a hangover. He groaned into the pillow. His head ached. So, he realised very quickly, did various other places. This thought was followed rather quickly by the visceral memory that he had managed to get laid, and that he was going to have to hand in his heterosexuality card. This was quite a lot to think about.

Coffee. He had definitely smelled coffee. Draco opened one bleary eye and peered out at the world. The world, rather wonderfully, included a house elf with a large cup of coffee and a plate heaped with pastries. Draco smiled.

"Good morning, Dobby," he said. Dobby beamed.

"Master Draco is awake?"

"So it seems," he agreed. He sat up carefully and winced a little. "Could you get me some water? I think I - oh. Good," he said with feeling as Dobby pointed to the bedside table. A crystal jug of water stood there, its sides beaded with condensation that declared its contents to be still perfectly chilled. He decanted water into the goblet carefully, raised trembling fingers around the glass and knocked it back. His whole dehydrated body rejoiced. He took a second glassful, and a third, and then the world was a very much better place. "Thank you," said Draco as an afterthought. It was starting to feel perfectly normal to talk to the house elf. "How did you know?"

"Master Draco missed breakfast," said Dobby.

"Did I? Bugger. What time is it? Why didn't anyone - okay, that's a stupid question." He leaned forwards to take the plate of croissants and winced again as his muscles protested. His eyes widened. "Oh my God. I had sex with another man." After a moment Draco started to laugh. Dobby peered at him uncertainly. "Well, that was an unexpected turn of events." He started to tear up one of the croissants, chuckling sporadically, and then froze. His face fell. "Oh my God. Shit. I do believe - shit. Potter and the Weasel - in the middle of - oh hell." Dobby blinked.

"Master Draco is having - intimacy - with Harry Potter?" said the house elf. "And a weasel?" Draco choked on his croissant, and for a minute or two the conversation halted whilst the house elf pounded energetically on Draco's back with both hands.

"Don't do that to a person," spluttered Draco at last. "No, by Merlin, Master Draco most certainly is not. Although Master Draco did have - intimacy - with a male, Mudblood Hufflepuff, so Master Draco's standards are apparently slipping." And it was, perhaps, safe to admit to himself, if to no-one else, that he did not find Harry Potter wholly repulsive. Physically, at least. This sex-having certainly made a person look at the world from a new perspective. Draco nibbled another piece of the croissant cautiously and slid his fingers inside the collar of his pyjamas, remembering Justin's mouth. He found that he couldn't quite wipe the smile off his face. "I wonder who was using whom?" he asked himself quietly. It had seemed like a pretty even balance at the time.

 

* * *

 

After a very swift shower, Draco started to pull on some clothes and paused at the sight of himself in the mirror. His breath caught suddenly and he stared at the marks on his throat and chest and hip, which, in his haste to get himself clean as quickly as possible, he hadn't actually noticed whilst washing. Justin's mouth had left a haphazard trail of angry red blotches where his kisses had forced Draco's blood to bloom unprettily just beneath the surface of his skin. He ran an exploratory fingertip over them and shuddered at the sense-memory; his body promptly reacted in a predictable fashion and he gave a little half-laugh before buttoning up his shirt. Possibly it would be a good idea to go and get Madam Pomfrey to remove the marks, or just look up an appropriate charm himself; on the other hand he could let them stay there as a reminder, however tacky, of having been touched.

The question now, of course, was whether Justin Finch-Fletchley - or indeed Potter and the Weasel - had told the world that Draco Malfoy had lowered himself to getting naked with a mudblood boy. And the answer, undoubtedly, was yes. He knotted his tie with trembling fingers, unable to help thinking about the use it had been put to the previous night, and squared his shoulders. No sooner had he admitted to himself that he was in the closet than he was being dragged kicking and screaming out of it. Still, he reflected, it wasn't as if he actually had a reputation left to lose.

* * *

 

"Off to Hufflepuff?" The emphasis was very firmly placed upon the last syllable. Draco paused, and then turned slowly. So much for discretion, then. His questioner was a third year, and for the life of him, Draco couldn't remember the boy's name. Andy? Sandy? Something like that. He couldn't be more than fourteen, though, the vicious little brat. "So when they say you sucked up to You Know Who, do they mean that literally?" the boy asked. "Or is that why they threw you out? Because they found out you were queer?" Draco stared silently at the boy for a solid ten seconds, and watched his confidence slowly desert him.

"As I have no interest in anyone whose voice still hasn't broken, I fail to see how whom I choose to fuck can be of any relevance to you," Draco finally said in an icy voice. "And since I'm in a fairly good mood I think I'll let you keep your tongue. But if you piss me off again, you might like to think about how much Dark Arts experience I have under my belt. For example, one of the things that Voldemort particularly enjoys doing to people who irritate him is turning them inside out. Have you ever seen someone turned inside out? Bones all liquefied, skin peeled away, intestines unravelling and everything spread flat -- without killing them? And every nerve left alive with pain, but they can't inflate their lungs to scream? I know how to do that." He paused, then smiled. "It's the least of the things I know how to do."

The child looked ready to wet his pants by this point, to Draco's considerable satisfaction.

"Sorry!" Sandy stammered with evident sincerity. "I'm really - I didn't mean - sorry! Please don't!"

"Apology accepted," Draco said pleasantly. "Isn't it nice when we can all be friendly? Now run along to class, there's a good little boy. And try really hard not to piss me off in the future."

* * *

 

Draco was twenty minutes late to Herbology. Professor Sprout cast him an absent-minded look of disapproval as he made his way to the empty space at one work-bench, and Draco could feel several dozen pairs of eyes burning into him all the while. He made a point of walking with his best don't-give-a-damn strut, and thanked his lucky stars that his grasp of healing spells had been adequate to sooth his aching muscles. Hobbling, however slightly, would have been thoroughly undignified.

As he passed them, Seamus Finnegan muttered something to Dean Thomas, and they both laughed. Draco paused and fixed them with an icy stare.

"Yes? Can I help you?" he said in a dangerous undertone. Clearly Dean Thomas remembered the last hex that Draco had cast on him very vividly, however, because he immediately lost himself in the contemplation of the plants. Seamus Finnegan shook his head nervously. "Good."

A small smile curved Draco's mouth as he took a seat beside Esme Millington. She ignored him pointedly, which was something of a blessing. Draco turned his attention to Professor Sprout, and noticed, with a disproportionate stab of pleasure, that Neville Longbottom was grinning sympathetically at him. Longbottom, Draco decided then and there, really was all right.


	13. Chapter 13

Draco was amused to see that he was once again the subject of muttered conversations at the dinner table. The Slytherins had actually seemed to be getting used to his presence, or else had run out of rumours to recycle, but now his was evidently the name on everyone's lips once more. He drizzled mint sauce over his roast lamb and assumed a demure expression whilst he wondered, with a twinge of malice, how Claude Vulpone - currently talking both loudly and pointedly about "unnatural behaviour" - would react to flirtation. After listening quietly for several minutes Draco caught Claude's eye and winked lasciviously, and he was delighted to hear Claude's voice falter to a halt.

Draco's smile melted away when he caught sight of Justin Finch-Fletchley walking into the Great Hall with his boring Hufflepuff chums. The down side to one-night-stands was the messy business of having to see the other person again. Draco's stomach clenched, but he sat up straighter and concentrated his attention on slicing up a roast parsnip, for all the world as if this were a complex and vitally important task. It was an unpleasant truth that he had made himself more vulnerable last night than he had ever felt with Blaise, or Pansy, or Millicent Grimalkin, and although the feeling of sheer release and intimacy had been wonderful at the time, Justin Finch-Fletchley was still not to be trusted. They were not friends. It was an odd feeling. Draco glanced over to the Hufflepuff table very briefly and then fixed his eyes back on his plate, conscious that he was being watched closely by half the hall. He felt suddenly miserable. He had used Justin, and Justin had used him, and it had been a thoroughly satisfactory exchange. His body was still buzzing with the memory. It would be idiotic to get sentimental about it all.

He couldn't taste the food on his fork. Draco lay down his cutlery and poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice, and then very nearly spilled the whole jug when Justin Finch-Fletchley swung one leg over the bench at his side and sat down a little too close to him. One knee brushed against Draco's bottom and the other bumped into his thigh, and suddenly Draco Malfoy was very much aware of the bite marks concealed under his clothes. He set the jug down carefully and tried not to feel ridiculously pleased.

"Can I help you?" he asked, in a half-decent imitation of his customary hauteur. Justin grinned.

"Actually, I think the boot's on the other foot. I thought you might like to borrow my notes for the classes you've missed so far this term. I know we've got several subjects in common." Draco found himself temporarily speechless, and Justin's smile widened. It was a very nice smile, as smiles went. "See you in the library this evening? Around six?" He pushed very gently against Draco with his knees.

"Well, I - yes. Okay. That - yes," said Draco, suddenly the epitome of gaucheness.s He felt himself going crimson. Ronald Weasley would have looked positively smooth next to him.

"Cool. See you there, then," said Justin. He stood up smoothly and rested one hand on Draco's shoulder for balance as he hooked his leg out from under the table. Draco managed not to watch him walk away. Thhe whispering at the far end of the Slytherin table increased tenfold, but Draco found he didn't mind. He couldn't stop grinning.

 

* * *

 

It was perfectly impossible to pretend that he didn't have a date. Draco had tried quite hard, arriving nonchalantly half an hour early with the intention of studying like a good little born-again Hogwarts student regardless of whether or not Justin Finch-Fletchley deigned to show. He was, however, fooling nobody. Every time the library doors opened his head snapped up automatically. After a while Hermione Granger, up to her neck in Arithmancy books, glanced at him knowingly and murmured something to the Weasley girl, and the two of them dissolved into fits of giggles. Draco considered moving to a quieter corner of the library, but the possibility that Justin might come and go without seeing him was not to be countenanced. In the end he angled his chair with its back to the door to force himself not to stare like a lovesick idiot, and tried to lose himself in a book of advanced cantrips.

The minutes that followed dragged out like Honeyduke's finest stretching toffees. The Weasley girl's study ethic flagged and she wandered off in search of hot chocolate. Half a dozen Ravenclaws arrived together, all of them bespectacled and in need of hair cuts, and they settled down to work at a nearby table. Draco took of his shoes, and put them back on, and took them off again. He sharpened his quill. He poured solemnly over indices written in Greek, without having the faintest idea of what they said. He counted the rungs on the nearest ladder. He wondered, idly what the collective noun for Ravenclaws should be, and toyed with 'an insipidity' and 'a study' before settling upon 'a tedium'. He managed, after considerable effort, to wait for up to five minutes between glances at the clock.

Draco had read the same paragraph half a dozen times before realising that he hadn't taken in a single word, and he was just in the process of starting all over again when a hand closing over his shoulder, and a bare thumb resting on the nape of his neck, made him jump half out of his seat.

"Hello," said Justin Finch-Fletchley, smiling.

"You came," said Draco, before he could stop himself. There was an uncomfortable little pause, whilst the ground, most uncooperatively, failed to swallow him, and Justin's smile widened.

"Indeed. And so did you. Quite loudly, as I recall - and now we're the talk of the school. Still, anything to keep people's minds off the undeclared war, eh? Terribly selfless of us." Justin slid into the seat next to him and plonked a surprisingly slender book on the table between them. Draco stared at it blankly, and tried not to think about sex.

"I thought we could start with Potions," said Justin comfortably. "I got Verity Hemlock's Bluffer's Guide to Poisons for Christmas." Draco's eyes finally focused on the book and he frowned.

"What's wrong with the covers? They're so - thin. And shiny." Justin grinned.

"Paperback - it's from Waltzing Bathilda's." Draco was still none the wiser, and his expression must have made this perfectly clear. "The main bookshop in Pragmatic Alley. Sydney." Draco's face remained blank. "Australia, Malfoy. Good grief. Big place, surrounded by sea. Not terribly well connected to the Floo Network, admittedly, but, still - you must have heard of it? "

"Oh. The colonies," said Draco, nodding vaguely. "So they have printing presses out there?" Justin snorted.

"Terribly déclassé, I know, but none the worse for all that. She's very much easier to read than Jigger." He grinned. "Stick with me, Malfoy. You'll find that slumming with Mudbloods can be surprisingly productive." Draco flinched slightly, and glanced sideways at Justin's profile.

"You shouldn't call yourself that," he said after a moment. Justin glanced up. His expression was unreadable.

"A Mudblood?" The term sounded embarrassingly ugly on his lips. "A little late in the day to be getting squeamish about the word, don't you think?" Draco's face grew uncomfortably warm. "Second thoughts?"

"No - no, I just meant you shouldn't say that. You shouldn't let me say that. It's not right."

"It's true." Justin moved away very slightly. Draco's pulse quickened unpleasantly, and he placed a tentative hand on the other boy's arm to make him look.

"Bugger that for a game of soldiers," he said. "I don't mean - look, that's not the point. It's - oh, hell. I am trying to apologise. I haven't entirely got the hang of it yet, you'll gather, but Merlin knows it's not for lack of practise lately." Justin's mouth twitched. "So, look, I'm sorry, all right? I'm very sorry. I shouldn't have called you - anyone - that. Ever. And you shouldn't call yourself that. It's not - dignified."

"It's just a word," said Justin with a shrug. Draco was not at all convinced by this appearance of casualness, but he felt uncomfortable pursuing it. The atmosphere had cooled perceptibly. He bit his lip. New leaves were a damn sight trickier to deal with than one was led to believe.

"So this Hemlock woman is the secret to passing Potions, then?" he asked experimentally, and was encouraged by Justin's softening expression. He trailed his fingers lightly down to Justin's wrist and traced an idle pattern on the back of his hand. Justin grinned, and Draco felt embarrassingly light-headed. "How can I ever thank you?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something."


	14. Chapter 14

Draco was late to Potions Class, and this was never a very good idea. Undoubtedly Professor Snape was going to have a thing or two to say on the subject of tardiness, but Draco simply couldn't muster an appropriate degree of dread. He hurried down the empty corridors, trying to stifle a grin and wincing occasionally from aches in intimate places, and he wondered whether there were any possibility that Professor Snape might have overslept too. After all, life was full of surprises -- why did they all have to be unpleasant? Surely the odds had to tip in Draco's favour at some point?

He rounded the corner, trying to will Professor Snape into uncharacteristic, indeed unprecedented, lateness, and stopped short at the sight of a small crowd milling around outside the classroom. Draco looked from face to face for some clue; they all looked decidedly shocked, and their conversations were being conducted in worried whispers. Professor Snape was standing on the threshold with his back to them all. His fingers were shaking where they gripped the doorframe.

"What's up?" Draco asked the nearest person to hand, who happened to be Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived cast him a troubled look.

"Someone's been in Snape's room," he said. He glanced down at Draco's throat and his eyes narrowed. "What have you -- oh. Oh!" Draco lifted a hand uncertainly to the place where his collar brushed against his skin, and he remembered, rather abruptly, the feel of Justin's mouth right there. He met Potter's startled gaze and felt himself colouring and smiling at once.

"Come to gloat, Malfoy? Bet your dad would love this," said Esme Millington. "Are you going to poison us in our beds, now that you've destroyed half the antidotes?" Draco treated her to the second most quelling glare in his repertoire, aware that it made him look like Lucius.

"I don't deal with vermin," he told her coldly. "That's the house elves' job."

"Silence!"

Professor Snape turned around sharply. His face was paler than Draco had ever seen it, and the sense of barely-contained rage was overwhelming. They all drew back. Draco kept his eye on Snape's wand hand and wondered who the hell could have thought this was a good idea for a prank. Snape looked ready to have them disembowelled, and Malfoy frankly wouldn't put it past him to do so. The man was shaking.

"Go. Now." He drew a deep breath. "Fifty points from each of your Houses." Nobody uttered a murmur of protest -- evidently even Dean Thomas had enough of a sense of self preservation to shut the hell up in the face of a furious former DeathEater. "When I discover who was responsible for this, this -- " words evidently failed him, and after a moment he continued: "This incident, rest assured that they will regret not only the day that they themselves were born, but the day their cursed parents met. Indeed, they will regret that their parents were ever born, and their grandparents before them. Tomorrow morning I will have fifteen inches from each of you on the use and misuse of potions in warfare. Now out of my sight."

They fled.

* * *

 

"Do you think he's always been gay, then?"

Cho, who had been engaged in nibbling Harry's ear, pulled away grumpily. The breeze tugged at her fine dark hair and she brushed it back out of her eyes as she frowned at him.

"Look, Harry, I couldn't care less. I'm not interested in Draco Malfoy's love life. I'm more interested in our love life. I was hoping you would be too." This was not the first time Harry had heard her use this tone of voice. He seemed to have a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment.

"I am! I didn't mean - of course I am! It's just that Malfoy's clearly up to no good, and we thought that he might be a spy for Voldemort, you know? So we were keeping an eye on him. But I never realised - I mean, do you think that all this time - ? But he was always so popular with girls. I just don't understand."

"You don't understand? Harry, what's to understand? He's queer. Now we know. Or he knows. Or whatever. I don't know." She crossed her arms in front of her chest in a manner that definitely meant business, and scowled at him. "Look, don't you want to be with me? Because it seems to me that we never spend any time together, Harry."

"But just the other night, at the party - we were together then. We're together now."

"And right now you want to talk about Draco Malfoy instead of kiss me. And last night you spent half the time running around playing Boy Scouts with Ron, and arguing with Draco, and talking to Hermione. I mean, I like Ron and Hermione, you know that, but I'm not dating them." She sighed, sounding more tired than angry. "I don't like it, Harry. I want you to choose me, not them. You're always with Hermione and Ron, and for a while I even thought maybe you and Hermione - well. You know."

"Cho! You didn't! We didn't! I mean - Cho!"

"Well, I'm sorry, but what was I supposed to think? You're always with them. And I think maybe Hermione does like you."

"But - but you said - !" Harry spluttered, his attention wholly captured. "You said you thought she liked Ron!"

"I do think she likes Ron," said Cho thoughtfully. She twirled a strand of hair idly around one finger. "But for a long while I expected the two of you to get together, and I still think she has a bit of a crush on you. And on Ron. Sometimes people do that, you know - like two people at once."

"I can't believe you're saying this." She looked hard at him, and then laughed. It was a brittle sound.

"Harry. I just don't know what to make of you, you know? I thought that you really liked me. And then when I finally said "yes", it's all - it's like you want me to be in a little box labelled girlfriend, but not be involved in your life. Like it's still you and Ron and Hermione against the world and I'm not part of that - I'm just there when you feel like it. I don't like feeling like that, Harry." She stared over at the Forbidden Forest and her mouth twisted. "At one point I even worried that you fancied Ron."

"Cho!"

"Well, it would explain why you're always so damned distant, Harry. And then there was that time when Fred and George put Amas potion in the pumpkin juice..." She grinned as he began to redden, but she the smile didn't reach her eyes.

"That wasn't my fault."

"I didn't say it was your fault, Harry. It was very clearly Fred and George's fault, and very funny they found it too. From the sounds of it, half of Gryffindor were affected, and it's a damn good thing that McGonnagal got wind of it as quickly as she did or who knows how far things would have gone. But still - the first person you see. That's how it's supposed to work. I mean, everyone knows that Dean and Seamus were found making out in the broom closet, and they've never forgiven the twins. I wondered whether – but it doesn't matter. Don't tell me, because really, I don't want to know. I'm just telling you - I feel like you keep me at arm's length, Harry. And it hurts. I shouldn't have to start asking myself whether you're in love with Hermione, or Ron, or Nearly Headless Nick. It should be me that you want to be with, if this means anything to you. If I mean anything to you."

"God, Cho. I'm sorry - of course you matter." He reached for her clumsily and his kiss was a wordless apology. She accepted it, but there was still a rigidity to her frame that was new and unwelcome. He wondered, as he kissed her, whether he should tell her that it hadn't been Ron; that he had spent a retrospectively mortifying fifteen minutes avidly making out in a corridor with Padma before the countercharm settled over Gryffindor and everyone's senses were restored. But it didn't matter. It could have been anyone's mouth under his then; and it could be anyone's mouth under his now. It had just happened to be Padma then, and it just happened to be Cho's now. A lot of the time Harry couldn't understand what all the fuss was about – none of it was really as exciting as people made it out to be.

 

* * *

 

Harry woke up hard and sticky and thoroughly confused out of dreams in which Cho's limbs were pale as mother-of-pearl and her eyes kept softening into silver. He lay on his back blinking into the darkness and tried to get his breathing back under control. There had been a lot of dreams like this lately; images melting away as he slid back into consciousness, leaving him with fragmentary and disturbing memories and a nebulous sense of guilt. After a few minutes' consideration, he sat up, swung his legs out of bed, picked up his towel and padded quietly towards the door. It was earlier than he generally got up, but late enough that going back to sleep seemed pointless. Besides, there was an awful lot to be said for the privacy of the shower first thing in the morning.

Some little while later, as warm water cascaded down onto his skin and his hands occupied themselves with their regular morning activity, Harry was rocked by the realisation that the fantasies of Cho he was indulging at that moment bore a striking resemblance to the actual pose in which he'd caught Draco Malfoy some nights earlier. That, inevitably, led back to the memory itself in shining technicolor: Draco Malfoy pale and dazed and helpless against the plasterwork, lips parted and glossy and his half-lidded eyes widening and fixing on Harry for the longest moment just before they snapped closed and his face contorted in something that looked like pain, but wasn't. And once he'd let himself glance at that memory Harry couldn't look away. It was, quite simply, the sexiest damned thing he'd ever seen in his life. Cho's insubstantial face and form vanished from his mind's eye altogether, and his hands moved over his heated skin with renewed vigour as he replayed the scene and abandoned himself to sensation.

In a matter of seconds he came all over the blue and white tiles, harder than he had ever done in his life.

And then came the guilt, and the confusion, and the frantic attempts at rationalisation.


	15. Chapter 15

The first disappointment was the sound of voices. Malfoy was definitely still inside, because he was talking to someone. Harry couldn't distinguish their words through the solid wood of the door, but there were unquestionably two distinct voices in there. Possibly one of the Slytherins had overcome their newfound distaste at his company? Or - oh. Harry's face grew suddenly hot. It was probably Justin. For some reason that had never even occurred to him as a possibility; in retrospect is seemed painfully obvious. He considered going back to Gryffindor and just forgetting all about it, but then he squared his shoulders. If he was going to find evidence that Malfoy was working for Voldemort, then he was going to have to search the room; and at least Malfoy was unlikely to notice anything amiss if he were, ah, otherwise occupied. Harry swallowed. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

There was a knack to opening a door so that it appeared to be the work of some errant draft of air; over the years Harry had become rather good at it. It wasn't wise, as he had discovered quite quickly, to try that trick on Snape or McGonagall - particularly Snape - but the students were used to hearing unpredictable creaks and murmurs from the stones and pipes and timbers of Hogwarts depending on the weather conditions or fluctuations in thaumaturgical fields, and they were not yet sufficiently experienced to be able to distinguish between an innocuous creak and the noise of an invisible person standing on a squeaky floorboard. Doors did occasionally swing open unaccountably in Hogwarts, even when they were quite firmly closed. Still, Harry held his breath as he eased the door open a fraction. Malfoy's voice came to him more clearly, although it was pitched quite low. He strained his ears as he let the door sway gently back and forth, feigning the movement of a breeze.

" - I don't know what to say. It's really - I wasn't expecting this."

Harry jumped as another door immediately behind him swung open and three Slytherins spilled out into the corridor, laughing uproariously. He was faintly aware of a half-familiar voice answering Malfoy and registered that it sounded tinny and unnaturally high-pitched - almost like a normal voice heard on the other end of a telephone - but it had stopped before Harry had managed to distinguish a damned thing.

"I'll talk to you later, then," Malfoy said in an odd tone, and then the room was quiet. Harry could have spat with frustration; he was fairly sure it wasn't Justin Finch-Fletchley, though, and his brain was buzzing with other possibilities. Was it conceivable, he wondered, that Malfoy might have some sort of communication device? Although how on earth this might be used through all the spells of ward was anybody's guess, but Voldemort was definitely getting his inside information from somewhere.

Harry eased through the gap in the door and then scanned the room as soon as he was in; sure enough, Draco Malfoy was alone. He was holding a piece of paper and the expression on his face was very difficult to read. As Harry stepped closer, the carpet prickly under his bare feet (nothing made people suspect the presence of an invisibility cloak more quickly than audible footsteps in an empty corridor, as Harry had eventually realised), Malfoy folded the paper up carefully and slipped it into a creamy vellum envelope. For a moment, the way that his fingers and thumbs flexed at either corner convinced Harry that he was about to tear it in two, but then he shrugged, and gave an odd little half-laugh, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his pyjamas.

Malfoy's pyjamas, Harry couldn't help noticing, were a purple and white check that really didn't bespeak heterosexuality. In retrospect there were an awful lot of little things about Draco Malfoy that should have given this particular secret away a long time ago. Harry found himself wondering whether the girlfriends had all been in on the joke; this train of thought inevitably dragged some vivid and highly unwelcome images to mind, and Harry automatically quashed the recollection of Malfoy writhing against the wall of the store cupboard, white skin glowing in the witchlight against whiter plasterwork. (He was finding the thought of Edwina Curry naked to be a fairly effective passion-killer so far, but should that prove unsuccessful at any future point he still had in reserve the notion of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia engaged in the act of creating Dudley.) He frowned invisibly and started to consider how he might get his hands on the document. Harry watched Draco pacing back and forth with his brow furrowed, and willed him to go to sleep. Whatever the paper contained, it had clearly made a considerable impression on Draco Malfoy, and the suspense was killing Harry.

Malfoy raked long fingers through his ash pale hair, and Harry realised, completely irrelevantly, that it was only since the other boy's unexpected return to Hogwarts that Harry had ever seen him without the customary gunk stiffening his coiffeur. That first day, when his appearance had caused such a stir in the Great Hall, Draco's hair had been as soft and fly-away as it was now; thereafter it had resumed its usual condition, whether under the influence of a spell or a potion or some Muggle gel - although the odds of it being the latter were about as high as the odds of Professor Snape appearing at a potions class with a magnolia tucked behind one ear. Bereft of his uniform and hair products, Malfoy looked considerably younger and less daunting than usual. In fact he looked like shit, now that Harry was paying attention. His eyes had purplish shadows under them and his mouth was drawn in a very unhappy little line that had none of the usual Malfoy arrogance to it at all.

Harry shivered. There was no getting away from the feeling of voyeurism, but he comforted himself that this was in the very best of causes. And spying on a spy could hardly count as spying.

"This is stupid," Malfoy said abruptly, and Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. For one hideous instant he thought that he was being addressed directly. A moment later he realised, with vast relief, that Draco Malfoy had started talking to himself. Clearly cracking up. "What's done is done," he added. His voice sounded a little shaky. Harry's mind boggled quietly as he ran through a host of possibilities and came out none the wiser. Go to sleep, Harry thought, wishing wholeheartedly that he knew how to focus his will without using words or a wand. Put the envelope down on the dressing table and go to sleep, there's a good villain.

To Harry's delight, Malfoy actually yawned. Come on, he thought hopefully, but sadly Malfoy showed no signs of removing the envelope from his pocket. Damn. Eventually he stopped pacing and stared at his reflection in the mirror, and Harry found himself thinking of the science fiction shows that Dudley was so fond of, and wondering whether the mirror might be like one of those view-screen things. Malfoy yawned again, and his reflection rolled its grey eyes. "Get to bed," it recommended in a disappointingly un-evil manner. "There's no point in crying your eyes out over spilt milk. Besides, if you carry on like this you'll give me worry lines."

"Oh, sod off," Malfoy snapped. That was more like it, thought Harry: the Malfoy charm they all knew and loathed. "I'm not crying over anything, and I don't remember asking for your advice. And if you think that I'd be worried by getting seven years of bad luck, you can think again," he added ominously. The mirror, rather sensibly, refrained from replying. Nevertheless, Malfoy promptly took its suggestion and got into bed. Harry followed him at a safe distance of several feet and then watched with surprise and mounting frustration as the envelope vanished under the covers with Malfoy. As Harry watched, Malfoy murmured the charm to extinguish the lights. A moment later, while Harry was still blinking and trying to think of a Plan B, Malfoy's voice cut through the darkness to summon a small ball of witch-light. He looked decidedly sheepish but he left the little light bobbing gently over the bedside table whilst he curled up under the sheets. So not only was Malfoy talking to himself these days, but he was also afraid of the dark. Harry grinned. Ron would be highly entertained.

Now the only problem was getting the wretched piece of paper. Harry did his utmost to will Malfoy to remember that the envelope was still in his pocket, and to place it on a handy surface - but to no avail. He scowled. Harry was damned if he was leaving the room without it at this point, come hell or high water. He leaned back against the oak panelling and watched the other boy narrowly, waiting to see his features slacken into slumber. Unfortunately Malfoy was clearly having trouble getting his mind off the piece of paper, because he kept twisting and turning and staring at the ceiling, and very definitely not drifting off.

After five minutes Harry sat down on the floor and leaned back to wait. And after ten minutes he fell asleep.


	16. Chapter 16

Waking up slumped against a wall in pitch darkness was not the most disorientating experience of Harry Potter's young life, but it was still thoroughly confusing. Fortunately he had the innate sense to remain silent whilst his memory scrabbled around for a context that made sense of the situation. He remembered quickly enough, and the sound of someone not-quite-snoring a few feet away from him confirmed it: he had fallen asleep in Draco Malfoy's bedroom. Harry felt like the world's biggest idiot. Espionage was really not his forte. Helpfully, Malfoy was now clearly fast asleep himself; unhelpfully, however, Harry had evidently been unconscious so long that the ball of witch-light had now faded away altogether, which was going to make finding the letter that much more interesting. He could only thank whatever gods looked after the affairs of well-meaning Gryffindors that he evidently hadn't been snoring, because being discovered like that would have been quite spectacularly embarrassing. Not to mention potentially fatal, if his suspicions about Malfoy were correct.

Harry got cautiously to his feet. His shoulders felt stiff. More to the point, he couldn't see a damned thing. He considered, and then murmured, "Video" very, very quietly. Funny how many Muggle words were magical, he thought absently, as his perception of the room shifted. It wasn't in colour, but it was very much better than nothing. Malfoy, with typical perversity, had fallen asleep curled on one side, with his back to Harry's edge of the bed. Harry pulled a face, and then walked around to the other side. In sleep, with his face pillowed on one hand, Malfoy looked very much less obnoxious than he did awake. Harry had never noticed before what long eyelashes he had; longer than Cho's, even, and surprisingly dark given his colouring. Not that that had anything to do with anything. Harry realised that he was stalling like mad. This was silly.

He pulled the sheets back with infinite care and slowness, expecting Malfoy to wake up at any moment. Nothing happened. Leaning a little closer, however, Harry realised that Malfoy was curled in such a way that the pocket and the letter were half underneath him. To say that this was irritating would have been something of an understatement. Fine. Great. He stood facing Malfoy for a moment, bit his lip, and then reached a decision. How difficult could it be to slide the letter out of the pocket? Malfoy was clearly out for the count, as a light snore confirmed. Harry could do this. He shrugged off the Invisibility cloak and let it pool on the floor, reassuring himself with the thought that it was dark in the room.

Very, very slowly, adding his weight so stealthily that it made not a single creak, Harry crawled into Draco Malfoy's bed. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation was not lost on him; he was trembling precariously on the verge of laughter and he couldn't wait to see the look on Ron's face when he explained what lengths he'd had to go to in order to get hold of the evidence, but he felt quietly certain that it would all be worth it in the end. Malfoy was definitely up to something, and the document in his pocket was just the clue they needed.

By the time Harry had eased his entire body into the bed, however, he was no longer finding the situation particularly amusing. Draco Malfoy's body heat was bleeding into his personal space, and Draco's toothpaste-smelling breath was warm against his face. The effect that the insistent memory of Draco in the store cupboard was having on Harry's body was profoundly embarrassing. Frantically trying to visualise the Dursleys having sex wasn't actually helping; the images kept melting away to be replaced by the picture of Draco, stark naked, being shoved up against a wall with another boy's mouth on him. And to make it worse, Malfoy himself, lying there asleep, looked - well, innocent was the only word, and heaven knew it wasn't a word he had ever considered applying to Draco Malfoy in his life, but at this moment Malfoy did look deceptively innocent. Harry found himself remembering the incident with the boggart, and wondering what Lucius had done to his son that was so terrible. Maybe Draco was being forced to spy on Dumbledore against his will, out of fear. Oh, hell. Somehow Harry seemed to be turning into the villain of the piece, which wasn't fair in the slightest.

It was only at this point, as his hand crept slowly over the sheets, that Harry realised he could probably have used Accio from across the room. He really was the world's biggest idiot. Unquestionably. He lay perfectly still, stupefied by the thought, and then resigned himself to his situation. Uttering any spell out loud at this point, with Malfoy's ear a scant few inches from his lips, was absolutely out of the question. Mentally kicking himself, Harry continued to slide his hand gently under the sleeping body. He was trembling quite badly now, which really wasn't helping matters.

Harry had his fingers in Malfoy's pocket, sandwiched between the smooth vellum and the soft cotton, when Draco made a small, sleepy sound and rolled onto his front. Which meant, in practice, that Harry suddenly had six foot of pyjama-clad Draco Malfoy half on top of him: legs tangled with his legs, an arm slung over his waist and locks of impossibly baby-fine hair falling into his face.

Harry's mind went blank and he froze in utter horror, waiting for the shit to hit the fan.

Unaccountably, it didn't.

Draco made a wordless sound of contentment and snuggled into him, and Harry lay there speechlessly with Draco's eyelashes brushing his lips and Draco's mouth pressed into his collarbone, and had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. God only knew who Draco thought he was - probably Justin Finch-Fletchley, but for all Harry knew he could be shagging half of Slytherin by now.

"Missed you," said Draco drowsily. Harry didn't dare move a muscle; although to his complete humiliation part of him seemed to be quite happy to make its presence known, and was pretty much nudging Draco hopefully through several layers of fabric and demanding attention. Draco chuckled, still three quarters asleep, and then it was all Harry could do to keep from yelling out loud when he felt a hand curling possessively around a highly personal part of his Harrydom. At this point Harry promised himself that Ron was never, ever going to hear the story of how he got the evidence out of Malfoy's bedroom. If he ever got the evidence out of Malfoy's bedroom. Which was, after all, why he was there.

This was quite possibly the worst night of Harry's life. Near-death at the hands of Voldemort was small potatoes besides this. Harry had never been so mortified. And not just mortified, he had to admit; there was no denying that parts of him were quite exceptionally happy about the situation, and that was a horror all of its own. He wished wholeheartedly that the ground would open up and swallow him; and a moment later he was wishing yet more wholeheartedly that he hadn't just had that thought, because "opening up and swallowing" just took his treacherous mind back to the image of Justin Finch-Fletchley on his knees in front of Draco, and that really wasn't helping in the slightest. He lay perfectly still, did his poor best to ignore the electric sensation of Draco's hand on him, bit his lip bloody in the effort to keep from grinding himself forward and creating just a little friction (just the tiniest bit, that wouldn't actually wake Draco up, and that wouldn't be creepy or, or, damn, say it, or gay in the slightest, honestly, and it was killing him keeping still like this) and tried very very hard to will Draco into going back to sleep.

Draco shifted slightly, and Harry gave a helpless whole-body shudder. His bare toes curled and his one free hand, lying uselessly on the pillow, rose helplessly in the air and clutched at nothingness. For one wildly reckless and illogical instant Harry entertained the thought of abandoning all common sense, flipping Draco over onto his back and just seeing what the hell happened. He could always kill them both afterwards, he told himself with desperate hilarity. As if he were reading Harry's mind, Draco's fingers tightened into an appallingly gentle squeeze, and Harry was almost sure that Draco wasn't actually conscious of what he was doing at all - but that really didn't help his peace of mind in the slightest.

Harry stuffed his own fist into his mouth and bit it. Hard. The movement made the muscles in his upper body shift under Draco, however, and this evidently wasn't a good idea because it prompted him to move again. On the plus side (although Harry had to remind parts of himself quite firmly that it was a plus side) Draco's hand migrated northwards at this point. On the minus side, however (and he had to remind parts of himself quite firmly that it was a minus side) this led to some very interesting parts of Draco being pushed up against his thigh and then, to Harry's absolute surprise, Draco Malfoy was pressing a drowsy kiss onto the corner of his mouth.

While Harry lay there and wondered what in the name of heaven he had done to deserve this kind of torture, Draco murmured something incoherent, and rolled onto his back. Harry lay quite still. His head was spinning, and he wanted nothing so much as to be in a nice private place far away from Slytherin right now. Well, almost nothing.

Good grief. Harry couldn't believe how very complicated things had become in such a short space of time. He stared blindly at the monochrome ceiling and reminded himself to think with his head. Regardless of how unexpectedly good Draco Malfoy might feel wrapped around a person, the fact remained that there was a spy in Hogwarts and Malfoy was clearly it. Harry made a monumental effort to pull himself together and then remembered the envelope; a quick glance assured him that it was still tucked into Malfoy's pocket, and was now accessible, and he promptly stole it. Mission accomplished. Good. Harry was going to take matters one thing at a time here, and worry about - all this stuff - later. He eased himself back across the bed as stealthily as he could manage in the circumstances, and when his feet finally touched the carpet he all but ran across the room, pausing only to grab the cloak up from the ground and bundle it up in his arms. The door creaked slightly, but he was beyond trying to pretend to be a stray breeze. Harry Potter wanted out. Once he was in the corridor he wrapped the cloak haphazardly around him and then he barely stopped running until he got back to the comfort of Gryffindor.

Once the Fat Lady had grumpily closed the entrance behind him, he finally began to relax. The common room was empty. Harry checked the clock and found it was nearly four o'clock in the morning. Good grief. He sat down rather shakily in one of the chairs and shrugged off the invisibility cloak with a sense of tremendous relief, then turned the envelope over and over in his hands. He almost didn't want to open it - which was clearly stupid after he had gone to such lengths to obtain the blasted thing, but Harry felt unaccountably bad about incriminating Draco like this. He tapped the corner of his mouth absent-mindedly and bit his bottom lip, and then a sense of righteous indignation swept through him. Draco Malfoy was a traitor and a spy, and however confusing the past half hour or so might have been, that did nothing to change the fact that it had all been in a good cause. Draco had been talking to someone secretly, and it had something to do with this, whatever this was. Harry tore the envelope open and tugged out the piece of paper savagely.

It was a yellowing piece of newspaper. Which was unexpected. Harry unfolded it with trembling fingers, and then stared down with a sinking heart.

He had stolen neither instructions from Lord Voldemort nor vital information purloined from Dumbledore's office. It was simply a battered newspaper cutting of the late Narcissa Malfoy sipping cocktails with Celestina Warbeck.

She looked, Harry noticed miserably, very much like her son.


	17. Chapter 17

The Slytherins' guardian portrait was thoroughly unimpressed to be woken up again so soon. It adjusted the tassel on its long green nightcap with an air of marked disgruntlement whilst Harry whispered the password, and it was still muttering as the door closed again behind him. Harry slipped the invisibility cloak back on and then it was a simple enough matter to make his way back to Draco's chamber without risking being noticed by any random insomniacs. Slytherin, however, was eerily silent. Harry's guilt was almost palpable as he eased the door ajar and crept back towards Draco's bed.

The vision enhancement spell was gradually wearing off, but Harry could still see well enough in the dark to know that Draco was deep in sleep. To judge by the way he was twitching, and the expression on his face, however, Draco Malfoy was not having very pleasant dreams. Harry bit his lip and dropped the envelope onto the pillow, then beat a hasty retreat. It might almost, he thought grimly, be worth casting a memory charm on himself to blot out the memory of this night's events.

Harry didn't bother to remove the cloak as he stepped back over the threshold.

"What the - Who goes there? Show yourself, damn your eyes! Blasted students, up to no good, walking around invisible at this time of night…"

The portrait's grumbling grew fainter as he walked down the corridor. He spared it a last glance when he reached the corner, wishing that he had never had the bright idea of playing Sherlock Holmes in the first place, when suddenly Harry heard the unmistakeable sound of glass shattering. Lots of glass. The architecture of Hogwarts was changeable, and it was not unheard of even for seventh years to lose all sense of direction, but Harry was still reasonably certain that the noise was coming from the direction of Professor Sprout's greenhouses. Or what was left of them. He broke into a run.

 

* * *

 

The troll was actually a little smaller than the one that Harry and Ron had locked in the girls' loo back in First Year. Nevertheless it had still managed to do one hell of a lot of damage by the time that Harry arrived on the scene: the greenhouse was a mass of shattered glass and broken leaves, with the troll sprawled untidily in the midst of the wreckage. Professor Snape, raking his free hand through greasy hair and scowling more than ever, cast Harry a thoroughly suspicious look. "One of your little jokes, Mr Potter?"

"No, sir!" Harry exclaimed, his breath unsteady from running. Snape squinted at him dubiously, his wand still poised. "Did you…?"

"I stunned it - but not fast enough. Professor Sprout will be appalled. Merciful Merlin." They both stared at the chaos. In the corridor behind them, footsteps sounded and a moment later Filch arrived with Mrs Norris at his heels.

"What the devil…?"

"Well may you ask. Perhaps Mr Potter might be able to shed some light on this matter?" Harry glanced guiltily from the teacher to the caretaker and back again. The full horror of his position was only just beginning to sink in. It was not impossible that Veritaserum might end up being employed, and in that case his debacle with the sleeping Malfoy would be revealed in all its glory. Harry swallowed.

"I didn't - I mean, it wasn't - ah. Hang on, what's - Neville!" Harry darted over the threshold and gasped as his bare foot came down on glass. Tears came to his eyes and he hopped back gingerly, lifting his bloody foot. "Shit damn damn hell ow shit. Neville?" But Snape was already there, crossing the glittering floor with brisk efficiency, his black robes flaring slightly in his wake. His mouth was drawn in a tight little line. Beneath the half-crushed workbench, Neville's familiar form was quite still amidst the soil and shards.

"Longbottom," Snape confirmed disgustedly.

"Is he…?" asked Filch. Snape shook his head.

"Alive, more's the pity." Harry's relief was palpable.

"I know he's been working with Professor Sprout on some of her special projects," said Harry uncertainly. "But why he'd be there at this hour…"

"It seems that this is quite the night for Gryffindors to be wandering far from their beds, Mr Potter. Perhaps later you'd like to explain what this is all about? But since you don't have the sense to wear shoes whilst roaming the corridors, I suggest we repair to the Infirmary for the time being." He shifted the workbench with a quick word and a twitch of his wand, and a moment later the unconscious form of Neville Longbottom was levitated into the air, scattering glittering glass dust and dark soil in its wake.

"Honestly, professor, I didn't have anything to do with this."

"Hmm. " Snape's eyes narrowed. "That remains to be seen. Follow me, please. And that will be thirty points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter."

"But Professor…!"

"I for one find it highly suspicious that you should happen to be awake and in the vicinity of the greenhouse at this very moment, Mr Potter. You will have to explain to the headmaster what precisely brought you here at this hour of the morning. But regardless of whether or not you were responsible for - this," he paused for a moment, and they all took in the devastation before he continued. "Regardless, you should most definitely be asleep in your dormitory at this moment, Mr Potter. And you very clearly are not. You are, perhaps, deluding yourself that normal rules should not apply to the great Harry Potter."

"No, sir," protested Harry. "Really, it's not like that."

"Nonsense. It is entirely like that, and has been ever since you were eleven years old. Frankly, it never ceases to astonish me how much leeway the headmaster allows you, Mr Potter. Were I in charge of this school you would most certainly have been expelled by now. You are, however, and against all my advice, still a pupil - and indeed a prefect. As such it is incumbent upon you to set an example to the other pupils. This may have escaped your notice." Snape glared at him. "Another thirty points from Gryffindor, to remind you not to answer back."

"But, Professor," began Harry, and then he managed to bite his tongue before any more points were summarily removed. "Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir." He hated Snape more than words could say. Snape smiled frostily and stalked ahead, with Neville floating along in his wake.

"Professor?" called Filch from behind them. Snape glanced back impatiently.

"Yes?"

"Mrs Norris has found a clue," Filch announced importantly. Snape's eyebrow arched.

"I hardly think there is a great mystery here. We can safely say that it was a troll, don't you think?"

"Aye, but who summoned it? That's the question. And there's your answer." Harry glanced back to see Argus Filch holding an unfamiliar wand pinched between finger and thumb. "This isn't Longbottom's wand, is it? His is the silver birch over there." Harry followed Filch's finger and saw Neville's wand lying amidst the rubble. He looked back at the wand in the caretaker's hand. "Find the owner, and you have the wizard responsible," said Filch. Harry stared. Unless he was very much mistaken, it was Draco Malfoy's borrowed wand.


	18. Chapter 18

Harry stood in the corridor outside Dumbledore's room without knocking, trying to think of how best to explain himself. When Professor Snape had marched him to the headmaster's office Dumbledore had simply asked Harry whether he were responsible and, to Snape's transparent wrath, had calmly accepted Harry's blushing word and sent him off to bed. Harry had looked at Draco's wand and felt a terrible pang of guilt, but he had said absolutely nothing in Draco's defence.

Now here he was, burningly conscious of the fact that Malfoy had not been at breakfast, and that somehow everyone knew that Draco's wand had been used to summon the troll. Harry had borne it all as long as he could, but he didn't like feeling like a villain one bit. At last he had resolved to tell the headmaster that Draco had an alibi, even though he wasn't aware of it. He'd felt far better once he reached this decision. Mustering up the nerve to knock on the door, however, was another matter.

He was still working out his speech when the staircase was activated and within moments it had carried the headmaster down to him. Dumbledore had a twinkle in his eye, and was in the middle of buttering a bread roll. There were crumbs on his robe.

"Mr Potter, you have been standing here for the best part of ten minutes. I rather think that you should come on upstairs, don't you? I gather that you have something important on your mind." Harry gulped, and did as he was told.

The room was full of the smell of cocoa and freshly-baked bread. Clearly Professor Dumbledore had been in the middle of eating lunch; his desk was piled high with scrolls and papers and the latest edition of The Daily Prophet, and in amongst them were nestled various platters of bread and cheese, and pots of chutney. Fragrant steam curled from the ornate spout of a silver cocoa jug, which was mostly hidden by a tea cosy shaped like a wizard's hat. A little trolley beside the desk was heaped with bread rolls, plates of cold meat, pates, dips, conveniently dippable sticks of carrot and celery, some expensive-looking hand made crisps, a large bowl of fruit, a medium-sized trifle and a whole Dundee cake. Dumbledore lifted a mug of cocoa and sipped from it, whilst Harry tried to think of where to begin.

"I'm sorry, Professor," he said guiltily. "I didn't mean to interrupt your meal." Dumbledore's smile was sad, and slightly strained.

"Think nothing of it. I was a little too busy to go down to the Great Hall, but the House Elves were kind enough to notice and bring me a light lunch." He glanced at the parchments and sighed heavily. "I believe the Muggles in the Far East have a curse that runs: 'May you live in interesting times.' As curses go, it is an insidiously effective one, I fear. These are dark days, Mr Potter. Dark days indeed."

"Yes," agreed Harry. He thought about Remus and Sirius, and found there was an unexpected lump in his throat. "I know you try to protect us as much as possible, sir, but we do all know. People are dying."

"People are dying, Muggles and wizards alike." They were both silent for a moment. Although the knowledge was always there in the background, it was something that they tended not to talk about very often. It spoke volumes that Dumbledore himself had taken to teaching the Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. "But I do not think," he said at last, "that this was why you wanted to talk to me. Was it?"

"No," agreed Harry, suddenly crimson. "Or at least - kind of. Um." He stared at the headmaster and found that he had absolutely no idea how to begin. Dumbledore smiled.

"Something you meant to tell me when Professor Snape escorted you here this morning, perhaps?"

"Um. Yes. The thing is that everyone's saying that Draco Malfoy summoned the troll - I mean, everyone is. And I know it was his wand - well, not his old wand, but the one he's been using since he got back, the one you lent him. But - ah - the thing is - I know it couldn't have been Draco that did it because it happened at half past three, and Draco was definitely asleep in his bed at half past three this morning." Harry stared fixedly at the tea cosy throughout this recital, for all the world as if he were transfixed by the embroidered pattern of white bumblebees that spiralled around it. His words tumbled out so swiftly that it was a miracle that the headmaster understood them at all.

"I see," said Dumbledore gently. "And, if one might ask - how exactly do you know this, Harry?"

"Because I was there. I mean - it isn't what you think, I wasn't in bed with - well, technically, but not because I was sleeping with - I mean, I did fall asleep, but only because I was tired of waiting for - no, that's coming out all wrong. I was in his bed, but I didn't touch him. Except when I had to. And I definitely didn't kiss him back." There was a horrified little pause, while Harry stared at Dumbledore, mentally replayed the last few sentences, and tried to will himself spontaneously invisible. "That came out all wrong," he repeated, sounding almost as appalled as he felt. It was probably a trick of the light, but for a moment Harry thought that the headmaster's mouth twitched.

"And why hasn't Mr Malfoy been announcing it from the rooftops, if he has such an excellent alibi? It seems that he is demonstrating rather unexpected levels of restraint." Harry drew a deep breath and, since the ground had not conveniently opened up and swallowed him, tried again.

"Because he didn't know I was there. I was – um – we're nervous, Professor, and we know that Voldemort's forces are getting stronger every day - and the way that he manages to keep his headquarters hidden, and the way that he's always one jump ahead of our side - well, some people think that there might be a spy in Hogwarts. Possibly. And there have been all these accidents lately - it's just really suspicious. And we thought - I thought - that it had to be Malfoy. So I was looking for clues in his room, with the invisibility cloak. Secretly." There. That was more like it.

"So you were spying on Mr Malfoy because you thought he was a threat to our safety. And you fell asleep, but you woke up in time to see that Mr Malfoy was asleep in his bed at the time of the attack - thus providing Mr Malfoy with an alibi, although he, unfortunately, is unable to return the favour, since he is unaware that he was being observed."

"Yes," said Harry gratefully.

"I see. I think, for the good of my peace of mind, it may be as well not to inquire too closely into questions of who - ah - importuned whom. Did you, as a matter of interest, uncover any evidence to indicate that Mr Malfoy was spying for Voldemort?"

"No," Harry admitted. "I thought I had -- but it was just a photograph of his mother." He reddened still further at the memory. "But even though he didn't summon the troll, somebody did do it using that wand. Somebody must have got into the room while we were both asleep and taken it, because I saw it on the chair with his robes before, when I was looking for clues." Harry ran one finger tip idly over the carvings on the edge of the little table and looked up at Dumbledore again. He couldn't let anyone take the blame for something he absolutely knew they hadn't done, but the fact remained that he didn't trust Draco Malfoy one inch. "He didn't do it himself, Professor, but he might know who it was – I mean, he's been acting very suspiciously. I definitely heard him talking to someone, and then when I went in he was alone - so I was wondering whether he might have some sort of communication device, like a magical walkie talkie or something. Or, or a mobile phone. "

"Walkie talkie?" Dumbledore looked thoroughly intrigued. "Mobile foam? At some point you really are going to have to tell me more about the devices Muggles use in place of owls." He took another sip of his cocoa. "I rather suspect, however, that the other person you heard in Mr Malfoy's room will have been Dobby." Harry stared.

"Dobby?" he repeated, dumbfounded. "Draco Malfoy talking to a house elf? Oh, Professor, I don't think that's very likely. Really. A house elf. Surely not."

"People have a way of surprising one," the Professor said, placidly. He offered Harry a platter of biscuits, and Harry, suddenly unsure of himself, took one. He lifted it to his lips and bit off a corner automatically. "I do know for a fact that Dobby has taken to visiting Mr Malfoy from time to time. And if you saw a photograph of Narcissa Malfoy in Draco's room, then it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest to discover that Dobby gave it to him. Certainly Draco did not bring any such picture with him from Malfoy Manor - and I know that Dobby was most distressed to hear of Mrs Malfoy's demise. She seems to have made quite an impression upon him whilst he was in their employ."

"Dobby?" Harry said again, stupidly. For no very good reason, he could feel himself starting to blush again.

"Yes." There was an awkward pause. "I think Mr Malfoy is perhaps a little lonely at present," Dumbledore said, very gently. He broke off a piece of Blue Stilton and passed it to Fawkes, who nipped at it daintily. "It is difficult to forget that his father is one of Voldemort's most enthusiastic supporters, or that young Draco must have participated in some thoroughly unpleasant rites before he made good his escape. On the whole the student body has been remarkably restrained so far, but I rather suspect that he has found the adjustment more difficult than he expected. His popularity is - not very high."

"No," agreed Harry, with feeling. "He's an obnoxious gi - an obnoxious person."

"Quite so. But not, you think, responsible for last night's attack?"

"No," Harry said reluctantly. "No, he couldn't have done it. So I really don't know who it was."

"Nor do I, more's the pity. Well, for what it's worth I can assure you that I did not believe for a moment that Mr Malfoy was responsible for last night's incident, even without your alibi - although it does appear that somebody wanted him to appear culpable. I have spoken to Draco already this morning, and he was entirely baffled as to how the wand could have been removed from his room." There was a little pause. "It must have taken considerable courage to come here like this, Harry. Thank you. That was an - honourable - gesture." Harry smiled weakly at him, but was feeling anything but honourable at this point. "Keep your eyes peeled, but for Merlin's sake do be careful. I hate to have to say that we may not be safe in Hogwarts, but it is becoming very difficult to escape the conclusion that there is a spy in our midst."

"Thank you, Professor," he said, feeling illogically safer to have heard Dumbledore say this. He could not believe, in his heart of hearts, that anyone could fool Dumbledore for very long. There was another awkward pause, and then he cleared his throat and added, "Um - you won't - tell Draco, will you? That I was in his room? Please?" The headmaster looked at Harry with an expression that was very difficult to read, and Harry had a horrible feeling that he was letting Dumbledore down.

"No, Harry. I rather think that's a conversation you need to have with Draco yourself, don't you?" Harry's stomach lurched at the thought.

"Um. Right. Yes. But you won't tell him? Definitely?"

"I won't tell him."

"Good. Thank you. Well, I'll let you get on with your lunch. Um. Thank you," said Harry. He was gabbling, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. "Goodbye, then," he called as he backed over to the staircase. Dumbledore smiled.

"Goodbye, Harry. See you at dinner time."


	19. Chapter 19

Neville was conscious when Harry reached the Infirmary. He looked pale, but far healthier than Harry had expected, and his face lit up at the sight of his visitor. Harry realised, guiltily, that he had barely exchanged a dozen words with Neville so far this term.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, smiling awkwardly as Neville tried to sit up. "No, hang on, let me - there. You okay?" Neville winced. Madam Pomfrey had confirmed that Neville's arm and three of his ribs were broken, and Harry knew exactly how much that hurt. "Um. I brought you some chocolate scarabs," he said, waving the paper bag around by way of proof. It rustled as the scarabs scrabbled against the paper. Neville smiled again.

"Thanks." There was a little pause while Harry found a surface on which to put the chocolates, and wracked his brains for something to say. "It's not too bad," added Neville after a moment. His smile was a bit wobbly. "Madam Pomfrey gave me a healing draught. She thinks it should be all right in a day or so."

"Hmm." Harry's tastebuds vividly recalled just how vile Madam Pomfrey's medicines usually were. Poor Neville. "So, ah, do you remember what happened?" Neville's expression darkened.

"It must have been an accident," he said. "I was rotating the bulbs and I had my back to the windows. The first that I knew of it was when the troll smashed through the glass, and then before I had time to draw my wand - bam. It made a terrible mess," he added. He looked almost guilty. "I should have stopped it somehow. I mean, you and Ron stopped that Troll when we were just eleven. I should have been able to - but I'd left my wand on the work bench, and it hit me before I had time to move. But I should have tried. Shit." Neville's expression was miserable. "It's ruined weeks of work. Months. Half of those plants have been destroyed, and some varieties are going to be impossible to replace with anything less than a Time Turner and a magic carpet. Professor Sprout was crying when she saw it." His eyes met Harry's. "I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. I did wonder - but I'm sure it wasn't Malfoy. Really sure. I don't know how his wand got there, but I really don't think he did it, Harry." Harry removed his glasses and started to clean them very thoroughly.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, without looking at Neville. One of the scarabs emerged in triumph from the paper bag, and Harry absent-mindedly plucked it from the table and popped it into his own mouth. Neville watched him with a wry expression.

"I just - I don't think he would do something like that. I know Ron thinks I'm being stupid." Harry glanced up in surprise. "Ron and Hermione came to see me straight after breakfast. And Ginny. And - Seamus." His voice was a little uneven on the last few words and Harry felt a twinge of pity for Neville. Still carrying that torch for Ginny, evidently - which couldn't be fun now that she and Seamus were getting serious. "They told me about Draco's wand being found. But - really, I don't think it was him. We're sort of - we're sort of friends. In a way. Or friendly, at least. He's not so bad, you know," added Neville defensively. "I think he's all talk, really."

"Oh," said Harry, while his mind boggled wildly. "Friendly. You and Malfoy. Really?"

"Yes." Neville looked embarrassed, but determined. "Yes. Not - I mean, he's still a Slytherin. And he's not very nice. But he's all right, really, underneath it all."

"You're saying Draco Malfoy has a heart of gold?" Harry didn't laugh out loud, but it was a close thing. His voice dripped sarcasm. He felt his face growing hot.

"Yes. No. Not exactly - but he's not so bad. And I just can't believe he had anything to do with the troll."

"No," agreed Harry reluctantly. "No, I don't think he did either. Have you any idea who else it might have been, Neville? Didn't you hear anything? Or see anything?" Neville shook his head.

"Nothing. I'm sorry, Harry - but it was so early I was half-asleep, and then suddenly there was noise and glass and then I was getting smashed into the floor. I think it was just an accident. It's lucky that Professor Snape was still awake. If he hadn't been nearby I'd probably be dead."

"Yes. Yes, that was lucky, wasn't it?" said Harry thoughtfully.

 

* * *

 

Draco Malfoy was already in the glass-strewn wreckage of the greenhouse. There was no mistaking him, even hunkered down beside a pile of pottery shards, with his back to the door; nobody else at Hogwarts had that distinctive Veela colouring. Harry licked his lips, squared his shoulders, and walked into the room. At the first glass-crunching footfall Malfoy sprang to his feet and spun around, and when he saw Harry his expression hardened into a familiar expression of disdain. Harry felt irrationally disappointed.

"Potter," said Malfoy, compressing untold worlds of contempt into two brief syllables. "Come to protect the daisies, have you? You're a little bit late." Harry swallowed. His mouth was dry.

"I'm just looking," he said awkwardly. Draco's eyes were the palest possible shade of grey, and his eyelashes were really quite startlingly long, and it seemed strange to Harry that he had never noticed them until the night before. He shivered, remembering the delicate pressure of Draco's soft lashes brushing his lips. "For clues," he added. Dragging his gaze away, Harry looked around at all the chaos the troll had caused and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.

"So is this the part where you tell me you're on to me, with my treacherous ways, and that I might be fooling Dumbledore but I can't fool the great Harry Potter?" asked Draco, folding his arms in front of his chest. His tone was mocking. "It was my wand, before you ask - or at least, the one I've been using since I got here. The Headmaster has it now."

"Oh." There was no power on earth strong enough to make Harry explain precisely why he didn't assume that Malfoy had been involved in the appearance of the troll. "No, this is the part where I ask when you realised your wand was missing. And whether you've found any clues here as to what happened." Draco looked so thoroughly taken aback that it was all Harry could do to keep from laughing out loud.

"You believe me?" said Draco. "Who are you, and what have you done with the real Harry Potter? I trust it was something painful?" Harry grinned in spite of himself.

"God, you never let up, do you?"

"No," Draco replied promptly. He cocked his head and looked Harry up and down. "What's going on here?"

"No polyjuice, I promise - and I haven't received a blow to the skull lately. Just look on this as a temporary ceasefire, okay? I don't think that you had anything to do with the troll. But I think somebody wanted to make it look like you did. I think there's a spy in Hogwarts. So when did you realise that your wand was missing?" Malfoy still eyed him with suspicion, but after a moment he shrugged.

"When I woke up - or at least, once I'd had a shower and got dressed. I left it on a chair, under a pile of robes. Then this morning it wasn't there." A haunted look crossed his face briefly, and then he scowled. "Sounds unlikely, doesn’t it? But that's what happened."

"Okay." That meant, Harry realised with a shiver, that whoever it was had quite possibly stolen the wand whilst he himself was in the room. He had been asleep for several hours, invisible under his cloak, and in that time a third person had crept into the room. He felt queasy at the thought.

"I think - and I shall personally kill you if you laugh at this, Potter - I think something has been watching me. Someone. Something." Draco turned his back on Harry as he admitted this, and so was spared the sight of Harry flushing a guilty crimson. He trod towards the splintered window frames and stared outside, running his fingers absently over the wood grain. The sky overhead was the colour of bruises, threatening rain, and a cold breeze tugged at the last leaves on the trees in the Forbidden Forest. "Not just the other students. I thought I was going mad, maybe, or that my memory was - well, I don't know what I thought. But then last night someone stole my wand. And now this. And poor bloody Longbottom's in the Infirmary."

"He's all right," said Harry.

"I know that," snapped Draco, turning around too fast. He caught his hand on a jagged edge of glass and hissed. Harry stepped forward. Blood welled up with startling speed, bright as claret, and Harry had his wand out without thinking.

"Salve," he said, and the cut sealed itself obediently. Draco lifted his palm to his mouth and licked the blood away. There was no scar. He laughed; it wasn't a pleasant sound.

"Christ. You're always trying to save the day, aren't you? Don't you get tired of that? Because it isn't always that easy, Potter. Sometimes things just get broken and stay broken."

"I know."

"Do you?" They were standing very close now. Draco's scowl relaxed slightly. "I suppose you probably do." Harry had a sudden impulse to reach out and run his finger over Draco's mouth; he could almost feel the shift of texture from the pale skin of his face to the pink and satiny surface of his lips. He drew a ragged breath and turned to look at the rest of the greenhouse, clenching his hands into fists and feeling the bite of nails digging into his palms. This was all wrong, in all manner of ways.

"I'm surprised the house elves haven't cleared this up yet," he said, for something to say.

"They started to," Draco admitted. "But Professor Sprout had hysterics at them and I think they're scared to come back. She wasn't feeling very - rational, this morning. By all accounts." They both looked around at the remains of the greenhouse. The skeletal frame of the room had been torn open, wrought iron distorted like tinfoil and oak beams crushed into kindling. They were effectively standing outside, surrounded by the shattered remnants of scores of windows. As they stood there a chaffinch alighted on one broken work bench and hopped daintily down the slope of its surface, pecking at the green pulp smeared into the grain.

"I don't blame her," said Harry. "She must have been devastated. I know it's going to be hard to replace a lot of these plants." He wasn't looking at Malfoy, but still he felt painfully conscious of the other boy's proximity and could almost feel the remembered warmth of his skin.

"That's what Longbottom said."

"You saw him?" Harry supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Neville had said they were friendly, after all. The world was a topsy turvy place.

"Oh, sod off, Potter."

"Would it kill you to be pleasant, Malfoy? Just once?" Draco's brow crinkled in thought, and after a moment he nodded gravely.

"Yes. I rather think it would." Harry smiled.

"Fine. So did you find anything to suggest who might have summoned up the troll, then?"

"No. Nothing."

"Damn."

"Yes. Quite." Draco chewed his lower lip for a moment. "It has to be someone in Slytherin," he said at last. "I don't see how else they could have got into my room. But I don't know who, or why." Harry fingered his wand absently and didn't meet Draco's eyes. As far as he was aware, nobody else had an invisibility cloak, so the odds of someone from another House getting in to Draco's room weren't great.

"I suppose it must be," he agreed.


	20. Chapter 20

"I think it's Snape," said Harry. Cho, who had been busily engaged in exploring the line of his jaw, paused mid-kiss.

"What?"

"I think it's Snape that's behind the attack on the greenhouse. I think he's still working for Voldemort."

"Harry!"

"Sorry. Sorry. For You-Know-Who. It's got to be him, though." Cho stepped back out of his arms and glared at him.

"I'm sorry, am I boring you here?" she asked icily. Harry blinked.

"No! No, sorry. God. No, of course not." He pulled her back towards him and pressed apologetic kisses onto the angry line of her mouth until he felt her soften against him once more.

 

* * *

 

The smell hit Harry as soon as he opened the door to his room. He faltered on the threshold, inhaled incredulously, and started to cough.

"What the hell?" he demanded at last, stepping gingerly inside and flexing his fingers around the handle of his wand. Ron's familiar head bobbed into view from behind the wardrobe; he had evidently been looking at himself in the mirror, and was still fiddling with his tie.

"Hey, Harry! How was it? Learn anything exciting?" Harry, fresh from his extracurricular Advanced DADA tutorial session, shrugged.

"I pity the poor vampire that tries to attack Professor Dumbledore," he said, with feeling. "Same old same old – I'm doing well enough, but he still says I'm holding back. I don't know; I'm supposed to be so bloody powerful, but I can't seem to get at the power, even though it's in there somewhere. Everyone says it's there. Voldemort says it's there – and at least I've always been able to pull out the stops when it's really been needed. So far. It's just not something I can control." He glanced around, wrinkling his nose in bafflement. "But -- my God, Ron, what is that stench? Don't you smell it? It's like – like an explosion in a perfume factory. It's awful."

"You don't like it?" Ron looked distinctly sheepish. "But – but George and Fred swear by it! Um." He held up a small glass bottle and examined the label with a frown. "Although I suppose it might have gone off by now – it was a birthday present two years ago. Damn. I thought it smelled a bit strong, but then I thought maybe that was normal."

"A bit strong?" Harry fanned the air frantically and Ron's shoulders sagged. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled a face. "That's like saying that, that Hagrid's 'a bit' tall, or that Filch is 'a bit' grumpy. Ron, it reeks!" Harry crossed to the room and opened the window, then turned to look at Ron in bafflement. "Why are you wearing perfume?"

"It's not perfume," protested Ron, indignantly. "It's aftershave -- you know, 'Irresistable'? The adverts all say that women love it. I thought – well. Um." Harry watched the flush spread across Ron's pale skin and felt utterly puzzled. "Hermione's helping me with my homework," muttered Ron, hoarsely, not meeting Harry's eyes. "I thought she might like it. Um."

"But it's just Hermione, Ron, why would you – oh." The knut finally dropped, and Harry kicked himself. "Yes. Right. Well, good for you, mate. But you might want to rethink this particular brand. Um. It's a little -- strong. You might knock her out with it, Ron – and an unconscious Hermione isn't exactly what you're aiming for. Er. I presume."

Ron looked thoroughly crestfallen. "I don't know why I'm bothering," he muttered. "I'm just going to make a fool of myself, and then she'll be able to write to Krum and tell him that her stupid ginger friend tried to chat her up. I hate him, Harry. Can you believe she's still writing to him? At Durmstrang?"

Harry swallowed hard at the prospect of another rant about Krum, and he raised one hand hurriedly. "No, look, forget about Krum, Ron. Hermione really likes you, and I swear she's waiting for you to make the first move. I don't think 'Irresistable' is the way to her heart, mind you, but spending time alone with her is a good start." He pulled his wand out again and flicked it through the air with a quick word. The pervasive scent faded away to a shadow of its former self. "That's not too bad, actually," he said, with some surprise, sniffing the air. "When are you meeting her?"

Ron looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. "Shit! Now! In the Common Room, in five minutes." He darted back to the mirror and stared at himself wildly. "Does my hair look okay like this, do you think? I was wondering whether it would look better brown?"

Harry's eyes widened at the thought of a brown-haired Ron. "It all looks fine, Ron. Really. You don't need to do anything special – she likes you, not your haircut or your aftershave. You need to relax a bit."

"Right. Relax. Right." He looked about as far from relaxed as it was humanly possible to be, reflected Harry ruefully. Ron shot him a nervous grin. "Well, I'm going now – see you later?"

"Good luck," said Harry, sincerely. Ron was still fiddling with his tie as he darted out of the room, leaving Harry alone once more with his thoughts. He padded over to his bed and dropped the battered DADA text book onto the bedside table. The room was uncomfortably empty, and for no good reason he found himself thinking about Draco's empty dormitory over in Slytherin. Harry wouldn't much like rattling around the room on his own – nobody to talk to first thing in the morning or last thing at night would soon get lonely.

* * *

 

Draco was not expecting human company. He had, in fact, become sufficiently engaged in his essay upon The Ethics of Transfiguring UnConsenting Living Beings that the tentative knock on the bedroom door made him jump. He came within a hair's breadth of spilling pumpkin juice over the full twelve inches of untidy but eloquent scrawl.

"Yes?"

"It's me. Um. Neville," said Neville, peering around the door.

"So I see." Draco found his mouth curving into a startled smile before he had time to remind it of the expressions appropriate to a Slytherin when faced with an unexpected Gryffindor intrusion. He watched Neville Longbottom sidle into the room, the very image of sheepishness, and wondered to what he owed the dubious pleasure.

They stared at one another for a moment, and then Draco's curiosity overcame him. "How in Hades did you manage to get in?" he demanded. Neville ducked his head, although whether though shame or modesty Draco could not decide.

"I sort of followed people," he said. "I've been practicing distraction glamours and I think I'm getting the hang of it. Professor Snape hasn't spoken to me at all in class for the past week, and I don't think it's because he likes me any more than he did before. It's just that I'm getting better at not being noticed." Draco stared, and Neville reddened. "So I just - followed them. And I listened. And then I came through the portrait. It was easy." He ran one large hand through his untidy hair and scratched the nape of his neck.

"You just -- Merciful Merlin." He looked Neville up and down as if he had suddenly turned green or sprouted wings, and after a moment Draco began to laugh. "How thoroughly Slytherin of you, Longbottom. Won't you get spanked for such naughty and Un-Gryffindor behaviour?"

"I think you'll find that sneaking around and breaking the rules isn't entirely Un-Gryffindor," said Neville with unexpected feeling. One of Draco's eyebrows arched quizzically, but his visitor didn't seem inclined to elaborate. "Anyway, I'm here. I thought maybe you could do with some company." Draco stiffened and turned his back on Neville.

"I am not a charity case, Longbottom," he said in his iciest tones, dipping his quill in the ink pot and resuming his work. "Nor am I leading the life of a hermit. Granted, my revered ancestors are probably twirling in their graves at the discovery that the scion of the House of Malfoy has taken to carrying on liaisons with Mudblood Hufflepuffs of his own gender, but they could hardly accuse me of living in splendid isolation when I'm conducting a torrid affair with an inappropriate young man." Neville drew in a breath audibly, and then seemed to think better of whatever he had been on the brink of saying. There was another uncomfortable little pause, punctuated by the irritable scratching sound of Draco's sharp quill staining the scroll.

"Sorry," said Neville at last. "I really didn't mean -- but -- sorry. Right. I'll let you get on, then." Draco listened to the unstealthy retreat and the anger seeped out of him as swiftly as it had grown. He shoved his chair back and turned to look over his shoulder at the uninvited Gryffindor.

"You're hopeless, Longbottom," he said, almost affectionately. Neville glanced back, his hand on the door handle. "Absolutely hopeless. We're really going to have to work on developing a backbone for you. Perhaps some kind of ossifying potion would do the trick." Neville's eyes lit up again at Draco's grin. It was not entirely unlike being adopted by a stray puppy, Draco reflected. One of those large, ungainly dogs, with ears and paws too big for its bouncy little puppy frame - an Alsatian, perhaps, or a Lurcher, all dumb, clumsy loyalty and nervous courage. Draco had always preferred cats, himself. "What did you have in mind, then? What do they consider entertaining in the hallowed corridors of Gryffindor?"

Neville ventured a smile.

"I thought you might like to go flying," he said, unexpectedly. Draco felt his face light up.

"I don't have a broom," he pointed out. Neville nodded.

"I know. I borrowed one for you. If you want. You don't have to, of course," he added, with a nonchalance that Draco wasn't buying for a moment. "I just thought you might be able to give me some tips - I was thinking about trying out for the Quidditch team, and you've always been very good, one of the best. But if you're busy, I could go and ask Ron." Draco nearly slapped him.

"You're not as dumb as you look, Longbottom," Draco spluttered, after an outraged moment. He was no longer fooled by the sleepy expression. "Which is just as well, to be sure, or you'd be incapable of walking and talking simultaneously." Neville's smile broadened.

"Are you always like this?" he asked. "This unpleasant, I mean."

"Yes," said Draco forcefully. "Always."

"Okay then."


	21. Chapter 21

It was perhaps ironic that, having established beyond a doubt that Draco Malfoy was not responsible for the spate of 'accidents' at Hogwarts, Harry was now spending more time than ever before watching Draco. But he couldn't help it. There was no question that Draco was just as irritating as ever, but every time Harry set eyes on him he remembered how Draco had felt against his body. Pressing a kiss onto the corner of his mouth. The brush of lashes against lips, warm breath upon his skin.

It was not nearly as revolting a memory as it should have been.

Beyond that, though, he felt faintly ashamed of himself for having intruded, and for having taken the wretched newspaper clipping. It made him feel like the bad guy, and that wasn't a sensation that Harry Potter particularly relished.

"Malfoy?" Draco turned and eyed him unwelcomingly as they filed out of Transfiguration. Harry could feel Ron staring at him too, but he sallied on. "I wondered -- ah, that is, I thought -- would you like to borrow my notes? From before you came back? Because we've covered quite a lot, and I know Transfiguration was never your best subject." Draco's eyes narrowed. "That is, you weren't bad at it or anything, I just meant -- um. Would you like to borrow them? I thought you might. But you don't have to. It was just an idea."

He had, it appeared, succeeded in shocking Draco Malfoy speechless. They looked at each other for a couple of very long seconds, and Harry thought to himself, quite irrelevantly, that Draco had very nice ears.

"Thank you," said Draco eventually, in the tone of someone awaiting the punchline.

"You're welcome. I'll go and get them now, shall I?" Draco was still staring at him, and so was Ron. "Or -- you're probably busy, aren't you? Well, I'll be in the library later -- I'll take the notes along, and you can come and get them then. Okay?"

"That's remarkably friendly of you, Potter," Draco said, still staring at him in bafflement. "Of course, knowing your attention span I dare say it's mostly doodles and copies of Granger's work, but beggars can't be choosers. Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Harry sourly. Evidently gratitude was another one of the many things Draco Malfoy hadn't got around to learning.

"See you later, then." Harry watched Draco head off towards Slytherin and felt remarkably stupid. There was no way on earth that he was going to be able to tell Draco about the whole newspaper clipping accident, no matter what Dumbledore said. No way on earth. He was already regretting his philanthropy. Draco was a lot less pleasant when he was conscious, Harry reflected, remembering all too vividly the unexpected sensation of being cuddled by a Slytherin.

"Well, now I've seen everything," announced Ron. Harry swallowed, and jerked his eyes away from Draco's departing figure. He prayed that Ron had not suddenly developed mind reading abilities.

"Just being friendly," he said in a defensive tone, glancing across at where Ron and Hermione were standing. They both looked gobsmacked.

"But -- but it's Malfoy, Harry," said Ron. Harry grimaced.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Um. But -- well, just because he's a jerk doesn't mean that we have to be."

"Well, no. I suppose not," said Ron, sounding unconvinced.

"That's very mature of you, Harry," said Hermione, smiling.

"Thanks," Harry said, feeling pleased with himself.

* * * 

"We need to talk."

Justin actually jumped. He was on his way to the Owlery with yet another letter to his Muggle family, and evidently he had not been expecting company. Draco took in the slight flush mounting Justin's cheeks and it occurred to him to wonder whether any of the letters home mentioned a hot new Slytherin boyfriend. It seemed unlikely, but Justin looked like he'd been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

"What's the matter?" Justin's drawl was a trifle forced. Draco studied him. "Pining for me?"

"Shut up."

"Well, really, that's not very -"

Justin made a startled little noise as he was shoved back against the stone wall, but it was lost when Draco's mouth covered his. Draco was getting good at this; it was so much easier with another boy. He moved his hand just so and felt Justin whimper incredulously against his tongue. Never let it be said that the Malfoys were slow learners.

"Are you playing with me?" asked Draco, some moments later. His voice was almost angry, but his hand was busy inside Justin's robes, making Justin gasp. Draco's mouth brushed the edge of Justin's ear as he spoke. It was easier not to look at Justin right now. "I need to know. Are you taking the piss? Because I'm not an idiot, Justin. I don't believe in true love or happily ever after or any of that rubbish, but I want - I just don't want to play any more games. Okay? That's all. So if you're playing some kind of game, just tell me."

"What the - Merlin's staff, Draco, what's possessed you? Why are - oh! That's - oh, God, don't stop."

Draco stopped.

"I mean it, Justin. I need to know what's happening." Justin's fingers dug into Draco's wrist and his hip, tugging him back entreatingly. He was breathing too fast, and the letter with its little wax stamp, like a single splash of arterial blood, had fallen to the grass. Draco stood quite still, waiting. Justin gave a low, irritable sound in the back of his throat and bit Draco's neck.

"All that's happening is this," he said unevenly, his breath gusting against Draco's skin. "Just this. I thought you were enjoying it. I know I'm enjoying it. Does it have to be anything more than this? I never said I was in love with you, Malfoy. But I like you, and I like being with you. And I love - this."

"Good." That was precisely the right answer. "No games? Because I really need you to be honest with me, Justin."

"I know that. Now please - yes. Like that. Damn, you're good at this, Draco. Are you sure you weren't practicing with the Quidditch Team?"

"Fuck off," said Draco, laughing. He felt like a weight had been lifted from him. Justin tasted wonderful.

"Make me."

* * *

 

Repairing the damage to the building was one thing; salvaging the contents of the Greenhouse was another. Professor Sprout, who gave the impression, these days, of being constantly on the brink of tears or violence, had rounded up every spare student she could to assist her in making repairs and tending to the wounded. This included, as Harry and Ron discovered, not only Neville Longbottom, but also Hermione Granger and Cho Chang.

"I don't see why they can't just magic it all back how it was," objected Harry, when Cho announced that she'd volunteered to help with the repairs. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"It isn't that simple, Harry. Most of the plants Professor Sprout cares for have magical properties, and if you actually create them magically then you mess that up. Even the healing and nurturing spells she's casting have to be done very, very carefully so as to preserve the balance of magical energies. It's a tricky business. The plants flourish far more with personal attention, though -- real one-on-one care. They like to be talked to. Even the ones that can't talk back." Harry stared at her, thoroughly bemused.

"Since when were you a gardening expert?" he demanded.

"I, unlike certain people who shall remain nameless, but whose names might just possibly rhyme with Gone Measley and Barry Rotter, actually read the Herbology textbooks we were assigned," she said tartly.

"You would," said Ron with a grin. "Can't think why you'd volunteer to do something this boring, though. Wouldn't catch me hanging around chatting to a bunch of ferns. He caught Harry's eye and they both laughed. "Can you imagine how dull that will be?"

"Ah," said Hermione. She looked embarrassed. "Well, it's funny you should say that. You see, Professor Sprout was in a terrible state -- I mean, she'd obviously been crying, her eyes were all red and puffy and there were leaves in her hair. She was really upset. I felt dreadful. So -- well, we told her not to worry about it. Um. We promised we'd help her. And we said that you would too."

Ron choked on his drink, and Harry spent a good twenty seconds thumping him helpfully on the back while he coughed and spluttered.

"You said what?" Ron demanded weakly at last. Hermione blushed.

"We said that you'd help too. Oh, you will help, won't you? Please, Ron?"

It was just like S.P.E.W, and the even less successful Giants Acceptance Group. Harry fully expected Ron to say something uncomplimentary, but for some reason the imploring way that Hermione was gazing at him, with her eyes wide and hopeful, seemed to have a powerful effect on him. He squirmed in his chair and started to redden under her pleading gaze.

"But I'm not very good with plants," he said half-heartedly, glancing over at Harry for confirmation. Harry nodded.

"It's true. Remember that giggling orchid he had to look after? Silent as the grave the whole time. And the Venus Fly Trap became a vegetarian. Ron just doesn't have green thumbs. Well known fact."

"But, Ron," said Hermione sadly. "I promised. I can't let her down. We're going there this evening, after dinner -- you will come, won't you? For me? Please?"

"Well, I -- well -- that is -- of course I will, Hermione. What are mates for?" Her whole face lit up.

Harry became aware that Cho was looking at him pointedly.

"What?"

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well are you coming along?" He stared at her.

"But -- but I'm no good with plants either. Besides, I can't come. I'm busy." Ron turned to look at him curiously. Harry's face felt suddenly hot.

"Busy why?" asked Cho.

"Um. I said I'd help Malfoy with his Muggle studies," Harry said in a very small voice. They all gaped at him. He really hadn't planned on this becoming public knowledge, although he still hadn't worked out exactly how he was going to get away from his friends.

"What?"

"Malfoy? Again?"

"Well, um -- yes. Dumbledore asked me to talk to him." This was not, strictly speaking, a lie, Harry reminded himself. Ron seemed to relax a little. Hermione's face was difficult to read. Cho still looked cross.

"Trying to lull him into a false sense of security, mate? Get some evidence about what he's up to?"

"Er," said Harry foolishly, conscious of his friends' eyes on him. "Well, yes. Something like that."

"Huh. Well, good luck. Can't say I think you're going to get anywhere, Harry -- I mean, come on, he knows how much you hate him. The two of you have always fought like cat and dog."

"Well, yes. But it's different now, isn't it? A lot's happened."

"But, Harry -- you don't even take Muggle Studies," pointed out Cho.

"But I've lived half my life as a Muggle. Longer, if you include all the holidays. That has to count for something."

"What is Malfoy taking Muggle studies for?" asked Hermione at last. "It's like -- it's like -- I can't think what it's like! Malfoy? Studying Muggles? Is this a joke?"

"Well, either it's all part of his disguise as a born-again whitehat, or else it's the, ah, improving influence of Justin Finch-Fletchley. Your guess is as good as mine."

"So, just so I'm clear on this: you're choosing to spend time with Draco Malfoy, whom you can't stand, rather than with me, your girlfriend." Cho's tone was far from friendly. Harry drew a deep breath and thought fast.

"Well," he said cautiously. "Yes. But it sounds bad when you put it like that."

"And there's a way for it not to sound bad?"

"Well -- you see, it's not like I knew that you were going to want me, Cho. It's a prior commitment. I'm a man of my word." That sounded better. He felt rather chuffed until he caught the expression on her face.

"Right. Fine. Excuse me, I have somewhere else I need to be right now."

She pushed her chair away from the table and rose gracefully, and very, very angrily, to her feet. Harry smiled at her and gave a helpless I-know-it's-a-nuisance-but-what-can-I-do-about-it shrug, but this only seemed to irritate her further. She spun on her heel and stormed away, and Harry sighed. This sort of thing happened a lot more than he'd expected it to, back when he was trying to muster up the nerve to ask her out.

"Girls," he said, shaking his head.

"I beg your pardon?" Harry looked up to see Hermione with a dangerous glint in her eye. He swallowed. "Oh, not you. You don't count as a girl."

Strangely this compliment didn't have the desired effect. Hermione stood up herself, glaring at him.

"I too have an elsewhere to be." Her gaze fell on Ron and her whole face softened. "Ron, I'll see you later, okay?"

"Right. Sure. Later."

Harry watched Hermione march off and heaved a sigh.

"That went well," he said, with a grimace. Ron looked at him thoughtfully.

"Would you really rather spend time with Malfoy than with Cho?"

"No! No, not really. But I want to know who's responsible for all this, Ron. If I can't get anything useful out of Malfoy, then I'm going to go investigating. I was hoping you'd be able to join me."

Ron shrugged helplessly.

"I'm stuck, mate. "

"You could have said no," pointed out Harry.

"But she was looking at me, Harry. I couldn't say no. I don't know how you do it."

"Ron, you need to ask her out," said Harry, recklessly. Ron pulled a face.

"I'm working on it," he muttered. Harry sighed.

"Well, have fun with your ferns, then. I'll fill you in if I find anything interesting."


	22. Chapter 22

Harry was struck by how much older Draco looked as he sat in the library with his head bent over the magazine. He had lost a lot of weight whilst he'd been away from school, and there were shadows under his eyes even now. Harry's mental image of Draco hadn't changed all that much since First Year, but it seemed that the real life Draco had. This was the first opportunity Harry had had to really look at him properly. Harry found himself staring, and reminded himself that he really should be quizzing Draco on who in Slytherin might have reason and opportunity to try to frame him for the Greenhouse incident, and the business with Fang, rather than asking himself when Draco Malfoy turned into a stranger. He bit his lip and glanced down at the piece of paper in front of him, on which he had written "Muggle Studies" and nothing else. The ink had dried on the tip of his quill.

"So does your fanclub know where you are, Potter?" Draco demanded, without looking up.

Harry scowled. "Don't call them that. But yes, they do."

"I bet that went down well."

"Not especially."

Draco leafed through the magazine. "Do Muggles really dress like this?" he asked, his tone incredulous. Harry glanced at the magazine, which seemed to be mostly photo shoots of scantily clad pop stars and soap actors. It was several years out of date, but still considerably more recent than most of the Muggle Studies books Hermione had shown them in previous years. Ron had been baffled as to why Harry and Hermione were reduced to tears of incoherent laughter by some of the books.

"More or less," Harry said, smiling. Draco looked scandalised. "Although this is a little extreme -- more the kind of thing people wear when they're out clubbing rather than when they're wandering around Marks and Sparks. But -- yes."

"But the girls are practically naked! And the hair styles -- what do they think they look like?"

"Cool. They think they look cool. And most people agree with them -- or would have done at the time. Fashions have changed a bit since then."

"These demin trousers are very popular, aren't they?"

"Denim."

"That's what I said."

Harry shrugged. "Jeans, they're called. And they're pretty popular."

"Jeans?" Draco blinked. "They name their clothes after people? What extraordinary creatures Muggles are. What about those baggy trousers they seem to favour, with all the pockets? Are they called Algernons? Carols? Martinas?"

Harry was startled into laughter by the honest bafflement in Draco's voice. "No! No, it's just jeans. I don't know why. It's -- just a Muggle thing."

"I see." Draco looked at the magazine disapprovingly. "Are the photographs really always like this? Frozen in place? I thought it was just a joke." Harry nodded. "It's thoroughly creepy, Potter. You keep expecting one of them to blink."

Harry had never thought of it like that. He glanced at the heap of books that Draco had amassed, and was abruptly very conscious of his own Muggle upbringing, and how little the Wizarding world comprehended Muggles. He wondered whether this was how a badger would feel if it found itself watching one of David Attenborough's nature programmes. Abruptly his mind presented him with an image of an outraged badger shaking a paw at the television and objecting strenuously to the BBC's interpretation of his family's behaviour. "No, no, that's not a territorial dispute! They're fighting because the Cedric insulted Raymond's taste in interior décor!" He choked back a laugh.

"Malfoy, why in heaven's name are you taking Muggle Studies?" he asked, before he could help himself.

"Because it would annoy Lucius, of course. Not nearly as much as realising I'd betrayed him and run off to join the enemy, admittedly, but every little helps. He'd be horrified to think that his son was learning to identify a, a baseball hat and a pair of janes, rather than learning new and exciting ways to kill people." Harry stifled an unexpected smile, but didn't correct his pronunciation. Draco scowled. "I didn't think it would be so damned hard."

"There's quite a lot to cover," agreed Harry.

"What astonishes me is how many sorts of Muggles there are," said Draco, fingering the heap of textbooks. "I mean, I knew that there were lots of them, but I'd no idea that there were so many types of them. You just think of it as us and them -- but they don't even know that there is an us! So they have all these wars about other stupid things, like skin colour and territory. It made me laugh, actually, the stupid things they think are important. They don't even know that they're Muggles! Funny, thinking of Voldemort growing up like this. Like you did." Harry shivered. He didn't particularly enjoy being reminded of the similarities between the two of them. "Made me wonder whether he got some of his ideas from that mad Austrian Muggle, the one with the little moustache. Chaplin, is it?"

"Hitler," said Harry, his voice shaking with suppressed, and slightly appalled, laughter. "I think you're thinking about Hitler."

"That's the one. Mad as a bag of frogs -- short dark haired bloke killing lots of other people because they weren't tall and blond and blue-eyed. And there's Voldemort saying everyone has to be pure blood, and he's not even pure blood himself. Barking mad, when you think about it. Actually, the more I read, the more I'm starting to realise that we could probably just leave them to it and they'd kill each other off without any assistance." Harry looked at Draco narrowly. "Not that I'm saying they ought to do that, obviously. Keep your hair on, Potter." Draco frowned. "On the other hand, it's a bloody good job that none of the Death Eaters seem to have heard about this knucklier power the Muggles have come up with. Sounds like it'd just take a simple little spell or two to press the right button and blow up the whole damned world, and then we'd all be buggered." Harry nodded. He'd thought this himself once or twice. It scared him stiff. "They've been very ingenious with using lightning, haven't they?"

"They have," agreed Harry. Draco chewed his lip and fiddled with one of the books for a while, and then looked up at Harry. His face was expressionless.

"So what's in it for you, then?"

"I'm sorry?"

Draco's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Look, Potter, I know how the world works. You made your choice on the train when we were eleven years old. We could have been friends, once, but with your customary lack of taste you picked the company of the Weasel. For which I remain thoroughly grateful, but it's a little late in the day for friendly overtures. So -- what's in it for you? I don't see you helping me with my homework out of the goodness of your heroic Gryffindor heart, somehow."

"So far I haven't done much to help you with your homework, come to that," pointed out Harry. Draco just looked at him. He sighed. "Well, I was mostly wanting to talk to you about who could be responsible for these -- accidents. Because it looks like they're trying to set you up, so it must be someone you know, someone who has a real grudge." He studied Draco for a moment. "Also you've been unaccountably nice to Neville, and he seems convinced that you aren't actually the complete shit that I thought you were. So does Dumbledore. So I thought it wouldn't hurt to help you with your homework at the same time."

"So what's in it for you?" Draco asked again.

"I just want to solve this," Harry said after a moment. "And you're the person in the middle of it. I think you hold the key to it all, whether you know it or not. Besides -- I'm sorry about, you know. What happened with your mum."

"Not your fault, Potter," Draco snapped. "Don't flatter yourself. She died because of me, not because of you." There was a very tense pause, and Harry ran his fingers through his untidy hair, uncertain what to say. He had a nasty feeling that the defeat and the damage he'd done to Voldemort last time might have had something to do with Voldemort subsequently resorting to mass sanguinomancy to replenish his powers, but he was in no hurry to voice his thoughts.

"I -- yes. Right. Well, I know the feeling," he said at last, helplessly. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Draco's face crumpled slightly. He looked away and drew in his breath.

"We are not having this conversation."

"Okay," said Harry, feeling relieved. "So who do you think it could be, then? That's setting you up, I mean?"

"Professor Snape," said Draco at once.

"I was wondering about that. He was on hand when the Greenhouse was wrecked, and he'd be able to poison Fang easily enough. But would he go so far as to wreck his own potions just to distract attention? And why? You were always his favourite."

"I don't know," admitted Draco. "I got the impression that there was some kind of spy in Hogwarts, but I could be wrong. Still, he's the obvious person, isn't he? Reformed Death Eater and all that. Since I returned he's been thoroughly unfriendly, and I have to wonder whether that's because I've betrayed Voldemort. It might not be, though. It might be somebody else. It could just be someone trying to get me kicked out, for revenge, maybe. My father has done some thoroughly unpleasant things." He grimaced. "As have I. Or it could be because I've been dragged out of the closet. At this point it didn't seem to matter very much whether I admitted that I like boys, but poofs aren't exactly popular. You may have noticed. So my enemies would probably be most of Hogwarts at this point."

"Now you're flattering yourself," said Harry, and Draco smiled. "Besides, being -- gay -- well, it isn't such a big deal these days. Um." He could feel himself reddening. "It's a -- I mean, lots -- um -- well, it's a free country."

"Perhaps. But I don't see you hurrying to jump out of the closet, Potter."

Harry gaped. "But I'm not -- what on earth -- where do you -- why --- what?" he spluttered. Draco sniggered, and reached out to pat his hand comfortingly.

"Calm yourself, gorgeous. I know you're straight as a wand; I'm just saying that if being queer were so damn popular, everyone would be doing it. But it isn't, and they're not. And, really, if I had anything at all left to lose, I don't think I'd have been in a hurry to get off with Justin and out myself as a poof, after so many years tucked safely away in the closet. But I really don't have anything left to lose, so what the hell." He sighed. "Only that means that the list of people who object to me is even longer, because it's not just the whole Death Eater business -- it's the little detail of me taking it up the arse. Quite why what I do with my arse should be a matter of interest for anyone but me baffles me, but there you go. It's a strange world, and no mistake." Harry was definitely blushing. He was also temporarily speechless. "Although I do have a very nice arse," Draco added, almost as an afterthought.

"Yes, well, that's all very -- um," Harry interrupted desperately, before the conversation became any more mortifying than it already was. His trousers were starting to feel inexplicably tight. "Yes. Quite. So we both think Snape, then? Nobody else in Slytherin who's particularly funny with you? Or who has a history of, er, animosity towards the Malfoys? Nothing like that?"

"Other than all of them, you mean? No, nothing in particular. I don't think so, at least."

"Right. Okay, well that's -- right. Um. I think it has to be someone in Slytherin, doesn't it? I mean, nobody else could get in without alerting the guardian portrait, could they?"

Draco looked thoughtful. "I shouldn’t think so. Well, unless they'd overheard the password – I suppose that's possible. But otherwise it's just us and the house elves."

"Draco?"

Harry hadn't heard Justin arrive. He looked up and offered the other boy an insincere smile, and his fingers clenched involuntarily around the forgotten quill in his hand. Justin smiled back, and then pointedly leaned down, wrapped his arms around Draco's shoulders and kissed his cheek. He watched Harry quizzically throughout. Harry reddened still more, for absolutely no good reason.

"You about done here?" Justin's voice was pitched low, his expression thoroughly salacious. Draco grinned. Harry, watching them, was acutely aware of the fact that they were both getting laid. By each other. Whereas he and Cho -- this, Harry felt, was entirely unfair. Although in truth there had been a couple of occasions already when he'd been perfectly sure that Cho was interested in going further than necking and fumbling underneath shirts, but he'd never quite felt -- but this was entirely unfair.

"Hello, Harry," said Justin. Harry looked down with some surprise at the quill which had just snapped in his fingers. He darted a quick glance at Draco and saw nothing but mild puzzlement. Justin, however, laughed, and looked at him in a disconcertingly knowing way. Harry felt a wave of intense dislike for Justin Finch Fletchley.

"Um. I -- hi, Justin. How's life?"

"Not bad at all," said Justin, his eyes meeting Draco's again. They were very well matched, Harry couldn't deny. They were both, in fact, pretty damned attractive -- Harry could certainly understand Draco being with Justin far more easily than he had ever understood Draco being with Pansy Parkinson. Pansy had never been a pretty girl, and unfortunately she didn't make a very pretty young woman either. Justin, on the other hand, had grown more attractive with each passing year; although it was more a matter of attitude than actual beauty, Harry thought vaguely, because Justin was certainly too thin and his features were too angular. And yet it worked. It definitely worked. He walked like he was absolutely gorgeous, and somehow this made it the truth. "You're finished here, aren't you, Potter?" Harry glanced back into Justin's eyes and was disconcerted.

"I -- yes. Yes, of course. Sorry. Must be going." He stood, suddenly feeling gauche and awkward and entirely too big and clumsy, and gathered up the few things he'd brought along. "Thanks, Draco. I'll -- um -- I'll see you later."

He started for the door and glanced back. Justin, still looking directly at Harry, licked his lips and slid his hand into Draco's hair, pulling Draco's head back. The pale line of Draco's neck was exposed, and he looked thoroughly uncomfortable -- like a horse being reined in, his back arching and his pulse beating visibly in the hollow of his throat. For a confused instant Harry half expected Justin to bite through the skin, like some B Movie vampire; instead his mouth came down on Draco's lips and he kissed him. Hard. Harry stood quite still, his useless quill and the unnecessary sheets of paper clenched in his hands, and he watched them helplessly. It was just about the sexiest damn thing he'd ever seen. Just about. Not THE sexiest damn thing, though; that had involved Draco's hands being bound above his head, and more nakedness, and Justin's sinfully beautiful mouth had been, had been -- dear God, his trousers really were uncomfortably tight.

Draco's eyes were closed, but Justin never took his eyes off Harry.

When Justin broke off the kiss, Draco blinked sleepily at Harry. He looked rather surprised that Harry was still there. Harry, for that matter, was thoroughly surprised to still be there. His mouth was dry.

"Right. I'll -- right. Bye," he said, stupidly, and fled.


	23. Chapter 23

"He fancies you."

Draco could not have been more startled if Justin had suddenly transfigured himself into a poodle. He stared, entirely bereft of comebacks.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said at last. "He's Harry Potter . One: he's straight. Two: we can't stand each other. Three: did I mention the part about him being straight? He's Harry Potter, for the love of Circe! Of course he doesn't fancy me."

Justin perched on the edge of the table and gazed levelly at Draco, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

"One: I've had my doubts about Potter for years. Two: he's helping you with your homework. Harry Potter. Helping you. With your homework. Three – see one."

"Well, but that was just -- well." Draco paused on the brink of mentioning Potter's latest project. Justin hadn't said a word about any of the 'accidents', and Draco really appreciated the unquestioning trust. He didn't much want to talk about it with Justin.

"Besides, it's obvious from the way he looks at you," added Justin. He smiled. "You two always did spend a suspicious amount of time pulling one another's pigtails."

Draco stared, and then broke into sudden laughter.

"Justin, this is utter nonsense," he said. "You just assume that all attractive men are gay."

"In my experience, the key difference between a straight man and a bisexual man is the sixth pint of beer," Justin said, solemnly. Draco snorted. "But you do find Potter attractive, then?"

"Well, yes. I have eyes. Don't you?"

Justin leaned back and regarded Draco through lowered lashes. His smile was thoroughly wicked.

"He's not bad. I've had better, but he's not bad. And you know how I feel about Quidditch players."

"Exactly."

"Can we go back to your room?" Justin asked, slowly, in a voice laden with promises. Draco shivered.

"Yes. Absolutely. Now?"

"Now."

* * *

"So Potter fancies you," Justin repeated a little while later, pulling his shirt over his head.

"You're wrong," said Draco, watching him breathlessly.

"And you fancy Potter."

"He's not bad," Draco admitted. "But I've had better."

Justin laughed and removed his belt in a swift motion that made Draco draw in his breath with a hiss. "But he can't have you, because you're mine."

"Am I?"

"Yes. For the moment."

Draco was already entirely naked. Justin had simply stood and watched and murmured instructions whilst he disrobed, and Draco had found the experience one hell of a turn on. Justin, Draco was discovering, was a rather more complicated lover than Pansy, or Blaise, or Millicent. In a good way. Justin was also blessedly naked now, and evidently quite as turned on as Draco was himself.

"Don't move," said Justin quietly. Draco grinned. Justin Finch Fletchley looked fabulous naked. He wore his skin like other people wore the latest couture robes from Armani Wizarding. If Draco were in charge of the universe, Justin Finch Fletchley would be naked all the time. Yes indeed. Justin walked around the bed, unsmiling, looking at Draco like he was a purchase that Justin had just made. "Don't move, Draco, and don't even think about touching yourself. I'm touching you." He trailed an idle fingertip across Draco's chest and belly, skimmed lower to brush over thigh and knee and calf as he sauntered down to the foot of the bed. Draco made a small sound in the back of his throat, and his fingers clenched convulsively at the bedsheets. Justin paused and looked at him. "You aren't going to move, are you?"

"No," said Draco sincerely, peering down the length of his own body to where Justin stood with his head cocked to one side, gloriously, wonderfully naked. And hard. For him.

"Good." He ducked down out of sight, and emerged a moment later with a small pot. Draco watched curiously as he unscrewed the lid and scooped a blob of pale stuff out of it. Draco was not expecting Justin to kneel on the carpet and take one of Draco's feet in his hands. He inhaled sharply. Feet were not something Draco had ever given very much thought to one way or another, and certainly not in an erotic way, but the way that Justin was massaging his left foot obliged Draco to reassess this.

"Where did you learn -- oh! That's -- shit!" He clutched the sheets harder and rode the sensation out. Justin's fingers were not gentle, but they were extremely effective.

"I'm a man of many talents," Justin said breezily. "You know, you have surprisingly nice feet."

"I -- ah -- yes. Well, they do the job. Oh, fuck, do that again." Draco was also not expecting the sudden wet warmth of Justin's tongue licking a stripe up along the sole of his foot, and it made him jump. Justin was just full of surprises, and Draco was extremely ticklish. "You're sucking my toes?" he exclaimed, baffled. "What the hell? I -- ngah!"

"Are you planning to narrate this whole thing, Draco?"

"I - ah - uh," said Draco, intelligently.

"'You're licking my inner thigh', 'You're biting my nipple', 'You're sucking my cock' -- on the whole, I think this could grow wearisome."

"Ngah."

"I thought you'd see it my way," murmured Justin. Draco breathed very hard. "Incidentally -- don't move."

"No. Right."

Draco lay back on the pillows and scrupulously did not touch himself. Life, he reflected a little wildly, just kept on getting more and more interesting.

By the time that Justin was done with his feet, Draco was quivering all over and he was clenching the sheets so tightly they were in danger of tearing. Justin smiled at him, and began to work his way gradually higher, rubbing the cream -- or oil, or whatever the hell unguent it was -- into Draco's skin in tight circles and leisurely swirls, slowly exploring Draco's body with fingers and palm and tongue. The scent of cinnamon began to reach Draco's flaring nostrils.

"I smell like a bakery," Draco gasped, as Justin licked the thin skin behind his knee. Justin paused and smiled. It was the sort of expression that should definitely come with pointy teeth.

"You smell much better than a bakery," Justin said. Draco gave a thoroughly unsexy snort of laughter.

"You're quite the master of compliments, you know?"

"I'm quite the master of you, you mean," replied Justin, grinning smugly as he scrambled up onto the bed and settled astride Draco's legs. Draco shivered. Justin lowered his head and started to lick his way up Draco's thighs, and Draco stopped laughing. This was all well and good, he reflected shakily, but he would cheerfully have given all the money that Lucius possessed to get Justin's beautiful mouth fixed in the place that it was presently most wanted. He closed his eyes and waited; inner thigh. . . outer thigh. . . hipbone. . . navel. . . belly. . . Appallingly, Justin licked his way around Draco's erection without actually touching it. Draco made an indignant sound, and Justin laughed. When Draco felt the smooth surface of Justin's chest drag against his thoroughly ignored erection, he shuddered helplessly. Justin licked and bit and sucked his way up across Draco's chest and collarbone until he found Draco's mouth, which he kissed most thoroughly.

"My God, Malfoy. You're gorgeous. You really are quite the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. Aren't I lucky?"

"Yes," Draco agreed, urgently. "You're very bloody lucky." He shifted his hips so that Justin's erection rubbed against his own. "And if you don't get a move on and fuck me pretty damned soon, you'll stop being lucky and start being dead. Or -- or a frog, or something. Don't laugh! Justin -- shit, Justin, you're killing me here." Justin laughed, and against his will Draco found himself laughing too.

"I hate you," he exclaimed ruefully, between kisses.

"And you've been so good," agreed Justin sympathetically. "You stayed very still for me. You're an obedient little thing, aren't you? Somebody trained you very well, love."

"Fuck you."

"That's the general idea."

"You are a complete and utter bastard, Justin," Draco exclaimed raggedly a little later. "You do know that, don't you?"

"You never said a truer word," replied Justin, comfortably. "I could just stop, if you like."

"Don't you bloody dare! I'm a dangerous man, you know. I've done terrible things. You don't want to piss me off."

"Draco, am I going to have to gag you?"

Draco lay very still. That, he told himself, should really not be a turn on. He was clearly a very disturbed young man. "No?" he said, experimentally.

"Pity." Justin looked down at him for a long moment, and then darted a little lower and bit Draco's nipple hard enough to draw blood.

Draco's response was loud, and his whole body jerked violently as he yelled. He stuffed a fist into his mouth and bit down on the knuckles. Justin froze, and pulled his mouth away from Draco's nipple.

"You moved," said Justin.

"I -- well, yes. I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry," stammered Draco, horrified by the possibility that Justin might do something outrageous like stop what he was doing altogether.

"I told you not to move."

"I know. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"I'm afraid that's just not good enough," Justin said regretfully, clambering down off the bed. Draco's eyes widened. This was impossible.

"But -- but -- I'm sorry! Please don't stop!"

Justin ducked down and picked through his clothes. Draco sat up and watched, baffled and angry and miserable and wanting. And then he saw Justin stand back up, still thoroughly naked, with his wand in his hand. Draco sat up abruptly. Justin's eyes narrowed.

"I told you not to move," Justin said. Draco looked from the wand to Justin's face and back again. He swallowed. Justin smiled. "You're going to make me cross, Draco."

"No, I -- sorry."

Justin tapped the end of the wand with his fingertip and looked at Draco for a long while. "Lie down again. Face down, this time." Draco bit his lip and stared at Justin uncertainly for a moment, and then complied. The sheets stuck awkwardly to his oiled skin. He shivered, and closed his eyes, wondering what Justin intended to do. Justin Finch Fletchley had an inexplicable ability to make him feel off balance.

"You're so damned sweet," Justin murmured from behind him. "I almost feel bad about having to do this. But you disobeyed me, sweetheart." For a moment Draco felt thoroughly chilled, and he had an almost irresistible impulse to get the hell off the bed and get as far away from Justin as possible. Instead, he lay very still and waited.

There was a split second's warning, a faint swishing sound, and then Draco felt Justin's slender beechwood wand being brought down hard upon his unprotected backside. Draco bit the pillow to keep from crying out, and mentally thanked all his lucky stars that he hadn't been turned into a frog on the spot.

"I -- this isn't -- is this safe?" Draco asked. His skin stung and he was shaking helplessly for a whole range of different reasons. There was no way on earth that this could possibly be safe -- and how on earth was a person supposed to explain that the reason they had a pelican growing out of their arse, or had turned one wall of their bedroom into mashed potato, was because their boyfriend, (or occasional shag, or whatever exactly Justin was supposed to be) had decided to use his wand as an improvised sex toy?

"Don't you trust me?" Justin asked, softly. Draco lay still and thought hard. The possibility of Justin leaving upset him more than he liked to admit.

"I - yes," he said, uncertainly. "Of course."

"That's better. You need to do exactly what I tell you when I tell you to do it, Draco. That's how this works." And to prove his point Justin repeated the action once, twice, three times, bringing the wand down hard. Afterwards Draco ground his hips desperately against the sheets, trying to find some friction. He froze when Justin slapped his bottom open-handedly. "No," Justin said. He sounded faintly amused. Draco lay still. His toes were curling. After a moment Justin added, "Have you ever -- no. No, I'll bet you haven't. Hmm."

"What?" Draco gasped. If it were at all possible to die from sexual frustration, then Draco suspected his life was in immediate danger.

"You'll see." Draco lay still. He thought he had a reasonable idea of what was coming next.

He heard Justin's footsteps retreating softly for a moment and then a pillow brushed against his side.

"Budge up -- I want to get this under -- yes, like that."

Draco lay face down with a pillow tucked under him and his arse in the air. The four stripes where Justin's wand had hit him -- quite hard, but not enough to break the skin -- felt scaldingly hot. After a moment he started, rather to his own surprise, to laugh. "Okay, now I feel really stupid. This is where you paint my bottom blue and invite everyone in to take pictures, isn't it?"

"No," replied Justin, patting Draco's calf reassuringly. There was a little pause. "Although now you mention it, that's not a bad idea," he said, in the tone of one receiving a divine revelation.

Draco choked. "Don't you dare," he exclaimed, laughing helplessly. "You wretched -- you -- don't you dare!"

"But it could look good blue," Justin pointed out.

"You're going to make me laugh myself to death. You are an evil, evil man, Justin Finch-Fletchley. You should have been a Death Eater."

"So I've been told," agreed Justin. He knelt between Draco's thighs, and Draco fleetingly felt the satiny brush of Justin's cock against his inner thigh. To his surprise, though, Justin still made no move to enter him. A moment later Draco felt the delicious and entirely unexpected sensation of the cool, creamy cinnamon stuff being rubbed into his shoulders.

"Oh, God. Yes," said Draco with feeling. Justin sniggered and continued to work his way down Draco's spine, eliciting heartfelt, if slightly muffled, moans of pleasure from Draco. After a while Draco felt the welcome brush of Justin's wet tongue tracing its own patterns too. He groaned. Justin slithered lower down, his clever fingers massaged Draco's lower back and rubbing scented unguents into his hips and his sore buttocks and the backs of his thighs. It was no surprise at all when Justin rubbed a slick finger or two down the cleft of Draco's bottom and investigated one of Draco's more intimate places, or when Justin's welcome hand insinuated its way underneath him to wrap around his desperate erection. Draco bucked slightly at the contact, and made an incoherent sound of frantic gratitude as Justin's slick hand started to move on his cock.

Justin kissed the back of Draco's thigh and Draco shuddered helplessly. "You're so damned beautiful like this," murmured Justin. "What would your father say, if he knew you were letting a Muggle-born wizard fuck you? A Mudblood? Oh, but it's delicious -- Draco Malfoy, the archetypal pureblood Slytherin, letting me bend him any which way I please. And you love it, don't you? Tell me."

"Yes," said Draco, splayed and naked and achingly sincere. "God, yes. Just -- don't -- stop."

"Will you do whatever I tell you? Will you suck my cock and make it pretty? Will you kiss my Mudblood ass?" Justin's voice was shaking nearly as badly as Draco's own.

"Yes, damn it -- you know I will. I do. Have. Anything. Just -- fuck! Please -- don't stop."

"All right," said Justin. His voice was smug. "I do love the way you beg."

Draco was not, however, expecting what happened next.

"What the fuck?" he exclaimed, astounded. "What the fucking fuck?" His back arched still further and he tried to look over his shoulder to confirm what had just happened.

"Sssh, sweetheart. Lie still. You'll enjoy this, I promise."

"Justin, that was your tongue!"

Justin swatted his stinging arse. "I know. Lie still."

"But, for the love of Circe, that's disg--gah!" Draco abruptly misplaced his vocabulary. He felt Justin laughing against his skin, and then the astonishing slip slide of wet muscle flexing inside him again tore startled whimpers from his throat.

Draco lasted an embarrassingly short time under the combined ministrations of Justin's fingers and tongue before coming very hard and very audibly.

A moment later Justin pulled away his sticky hand and withdrew his tongue, and kissed the curve of Draco's arse. Draco lay very still, breathing like a racehorse. His sweat smelled of cinnamon and there were tears on the pillow.

"I'm going to fuck you," said Justin quietly. Draco was having some difficulty remembering how to speak. "I'm going to fuck you right now. Hard."

"Mmmf," said Draco. Justin's breath caught in an involuntary half-laugh.

"Damn. I never guessed you would be so much fun to seduce, Draco. Will you do what I tell you?"

"Yes," Draco said. He couldn't stop shaking. He was, in the tiny part of his brain capable of such reflections, astounded that Justin had managed to be so self restrained for so long.

"Good." Justin kissed his shoulder, and then pulled away. Draco lay still. Moving seemed like something that other people did. Justin slapped his arse quite hard. "Come on! Get up!" Draco turned his head without moving anything else. He stared imploringly at Justin.

"I think you broke me," he announced ruefully.

Justin smiled. "Not yet. I'm working on it, though. Come on! Get up now, lover. You said you'd do what I asked."

"I did? I did. That was stupid. On the other hand, I'm a Slytherin -- we're well known for breaking our word. It's practically a point of honour." Draco peered one-eyed at Justin, his face mushed against the pillow. Justin did not seem to be buying this particular line of reasoning.

"Get up," he said again.

Draco sighed, and got up. His legs felt like jelly. "I don't see why we couldn't just get on with it on the bed," he objected weakly. Justin ruffled his hair.

"Because that's not what I want. Come here." Justin led him over to the window. Draco looked at him curiously, and then looked at the window. It was a large window and it looked out over the Forbidden Forest. The window ledge itself was waist height. "Open the window," said Justin. Draco frowned, but did as he was told. The cool night air was very welcome against his overheated skin, and it served to clear his mind a little more. He turned and looked at Justin for some kind of cue. Justin smiled. "Lean out of the window," he said. Draco's eyes widened.

"Now, just a minute," he exclaimed, his eyebrows hiking up towards his hairline. "You aren't proposing to -- yes, you are. Bloody hell. You really are. Not on your nelly!"

"But I want to," said Justin simply, his eyes dancing. "I've never done that. Nobody will see. Probably. Of course, you'll have to bite your tongue, but that'll be fun too. Or I could bite it for you -- I could swallow your screams."

"Look," said Draco firmly, "I am absolutely not hanging out of a window stark bollock naked whilst you shag me! Just not going to happen! No!"

"Chicken? Where's your spirit of adventure?"

Draco shook his head incredulously. "You really are without question the most --what are you thinking, for God's sake? My spirit of adventure is alive and well, but my spirit of stupidity is not. I'm not doing this, Justin. This is ridiculous. Anyone could see me, for God's sake! And I could get in real trouble." Draco heard the frightened note in his own voice and was embarrassed. Justin looked disappointed.

"But I want to," he said again. "And you said you would."

"I -- but -- yes, but -- " protested Draco, weakly. He looked at Justin's expression with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Here it was again. He was about to do something unbelievably stupid. "Okay. But without the lights on."


	24. Chapter 24

Fang, Harry was pleased to discover, was indeed fine and dandy once again. Hagrid was his usual self, and had spent much of the past hour talking about the practicalities of raising a gryphon from the egg. Much as he loved Hagrid, this was still remarkably boring, and Harry was quite glad to head back to the school. Ron and Hermione and Cho should have finished with their ferns by this point, he was reasonably sure.

Hagrid had not, unfortunately, succeeded in taking his mind off Draco and Justin. His mind seemed very, well, single-minded about the subject.

Harry picked his way back towards Hogwarts in the dark, his head full of thoroughly disturbing thoughts, and then stopped. He could hear something. He cocked his head slightly, angling it to try to follow the sound. Something muffled and rhythmic and vaguely familiar. It seemed to be coming from one of the rooms facing onto the forest. He scanned the walls, noticing some windows lit up from within by a warm glow of candlelight or firelight; most of them, however, were dark as pitch, the glass reflecting a little moonlight and nothing else.

And then his eye lit on the unlit open window, and the pale figure with its fingers clasping the window ledge as it was slammed forward again and again, and his jaw dropped.

* * *

 

They were just leaving the greenhouse when Harry arrived, red-faced and out of breath. Hermione looked at him quizzically, but Harry's eyes were fixed on Cho, who was doubled up laughing at something Neville had said. Harry barely spared Neville a glance.

"Good timing, Harry. You missed all the hard work, mate," said Ron, ruefully. He leaned a little closer and added in a lower tone, "Any luck with the, ah, special research?"

Harry blinked at him, and tried to get his brain into gear. "With the special -- ?" Ron looked at him meaningfully. "Oh, the special research? Um, not much, no. I've got some ideas -- we should talk about it later." Irritatingly, Cho was ignoring him and making a big deal about talking to Neville, in a transparent attempt to make Harry jealous. Harry's entire body was clamouring the need for some alone time with Cho immediately, if not sooner.

"Have you been with Malfoy all this time?" asked Hermione. Harry glanced at her and felt himself reddening helplessly.

"No. Um. No, It didn't take as long as I expected, actually. I went to see Hagrid -- I think he's been feeling lonely."

At this Cho did turn to look at him, and her expression was decidedly frosty. "So you could have come along to help after all, then? But you decided not to."

"Well, I -- well, technically I suppose -- sorry," said Harry, his tongue stumbling. He wished he was better at this. "Really, Cho -- I'm sorry. I'm not much good with plants, and I just -- um -- but I missed you," he finished. She must have heard the urgency in his tone, because she looked at him curiously. Harry stepped a little closer. "Really -- I mean, I really did miss you. Can we talk? Please? Now? In private?"

"I'm not sure," began Cho, but her irritation was melting under the intensity of his gaze, and she returned his smile. "I -- Harry Potter, you really are without doubt the most annoying boyfriend I've ever had."

"But you love me, right?"

"Well," she replied, with an unwilling smile. "Possibly."

"Please, Cho. I know it's late, and I know I've not been paying you enough attention lately -- won't you let me make it up to you? Please?"

"Um, I'll be off then," said Neville. He sounded embarrassed. Harry didn't spare him a glance. "Nice talking to you, Cho. I'll pick up the snitch after the Ravenclaw practice, then, okay? Right. Well, see you later."

"We'll walk with you, won't we, Ron?" Harry didn't look at Hermione either. His eyes were fixed on Cho and she was starting to blush rosily. "See you, Harry." Hermione sounded amused.

Harry waited until they were alone, and then he stepped forward, closed his fingers over Cho's shoulders and kissed her like his life depended on it. There was a moment when he was afraid she was going to stay pissed off with him, but Cho's annoyance wasn't enough to withstand this particular kind of flattery. She stopped him long enough to unhook his glasses and shove them into his pocket, and then she was soon kissing him right back with an enthusiasm to match his own. They stumbled a little and eventually Cho's back bumped into a wall, which provided better purchase. And then they kissed like it was going out of fashion.

After an indefinite time, Harry broke off. He was breathing hard. Without the clarity of his glasses, Cho's face was soft and could almost have been anyone's.

"Can we go somewhere?" he asked. "Can we -- you know? I really want to. Please? I do love you."

Cho laughed, which was unexpected, but she didn't sound angry. "My God, Harry. You really are the most -- yes. Yes, okay. Although why now, instead of -- I mean, I was starting to think you didn't want me, you idiot, and we could have -- but, yes. Okay."

* * *

 

"It's all right, you know." Harry scowled at the wall. Cho ran her fingers through his hair as if she were petting a grumpy dog and snuggled up behind him. She kissed the nape of his neck. He wanted to break something. "It's fine. This is fine. We could try again in a little while, if you like?"

"Whatever." He was a little surprised by how vicious he sounded. She pulled away from him, but he didn't turn around.

"I don't understand you, Harry," she said. There was the beginning of anger in her voice. "One minute you're all over me, now you're treating me like - like dirt. I was ready to - this isn't my fault. I don't care how important you think you are, Harry Potter. I deserve better than this."

"Shut up," he snapped, rolling over and sitting up. "Shut up, shut up, shut up." They glowered at each other. In the moonlight her body was all pale curves and pools of shadow. She looked beautiful, like one of the statues in the British Museum, and he found that it didn't move him at all. "There are important things going on, life and death things, and all you can think about is that I didn't -- that I couldn't -- I mean, I've never – I mean I don't have any trouble when I'm – I mean – look, I'm a busy man. I've got a lot on my mind. Could you possibly be any more self involved? Besides, maybe you did something wrong, did you think of that? " He could see the hurt growing on her face and after a moment he had the grace to feel guilty. "I'm sorry. That isn't - no. No, that's not fair at all. I'm sorry. This isn't about you."

"Well then who the hell is it about, Harry?" she demanded. There was a painful silence. "Fine. Fine." She scrambled off the bed and started to get dressed, moving stiffly. Her expression was shifting from hurt to angry as he watched, and her movements became increasingly violent. Harry bit his lip. The anger drained out of him, leaving him feeling empty, and a little sad. He watched her dressing, and although he couldn't remember why he had ever thought she was attractive, he still felt a weird sort of affection for her. There was dirt under her fingernails from working in the greenhouse. The new hair cut, which he hadn't noticed for days, did suit her very well, and he was sorry that he hadn't seen it before.

Harry didn't understand himself at all; he had felt so desperately aroused before, and he'd been sure that it was Cho he wanted, because after all she was his girlfriend, and he loved her, whatever that meant, and she was pretty and clever and fun to be with, and a terrific Quidditch player. The perfect girlfriend. It was disturbing that seeing Justin and Draco together had been such a turn on, but that was just hormones, after all. That was just about being a teenager and thinking about sex -- any sex. It could have been men, women or giraffes and it would still have been sexy, Harry had told himself. It wasn't as if he actually felt that way about men. Not really. He liked girls. He liked Cho.

Only not enough, it seemed.

"I'm sorry," he said again. She rounded on him, and he was shocked by how furious she looked.

"Don't. Just don't, Harry, or so help me I'll curse you back into the Stone Age." She pulled her robe closed and tossed her hair free. "This is it. Over. Finished. Done. You can spend as much time as you damned well like with Ron and Hermione from now on, Harry. Start dating them. Hell, start dating Malfoy for all I care. Just stay away from me."

"Cho," he began in his most reasonable tone, and to his utter astonishment she slapped him. Harry stared at Cho, and Cho stared back. She looked almost as startled as he felt, and for a moment he thought she was going to apologise. But she didn't.

"Goodbye, Harry." And then she was gone.

Harry looked blankly at the door.

Oh shit, he thought, with sudden, appalled clarity. Oh shit. I fancy Draco Malfoy. I really, really do.

* * * 

Draco was already there when Harry arrived at the Shrieking Shack, leaning languidly against the sunlit wall and smoking a fauxbacco cigarette. Harry felt his pulse quicken slightly, and scowled. This was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, he told himself firmly. After all, there was no way he could explain to Ron why he had taken it into his head to start believing in Draco's innocence, and Ron was starting to get pissed off about Harry spending time with Draco. As for Cho -- well, Cho still wasn't speaking to him. Harry was still convinced that the accidents weren't accidents at all, and somebody had to do something about it. Meeting up like this meant that Harry just got to avoid any difficult conversations about why he was suddenly concentrating on suspects other than Draco. That was all. No ulterior motives at all.

"Fag?" Draco offered, his voice just a shade too amused by the question. Harry ignored any double entendre that might or might not have been intended, and eyed the box with distaste.

"Since when were you a smoker?" he asked. Draco shrugged and took another drag on the powder-blue cigarette.

"Since when were you the leading authority on my habits?" he retaliated. Harry grimaced.

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy." He glanced around nervously and Draco's smile broadened.

"Worried you might be spotted hobnobbing with the enemy? Or scared your little chums will think you're a nancy boy?"

"Oh, do shut up," snapped Harry. Draco laughed and waved the cigarette dramatically, leaving a trail of greenish smoke in the air. The smell was more like incense than the harsh stink of Dudley's Muggle cigarettes. Harry didn't care for it very much.

"You know, as it happens this particular vice was one I learned from one of your lot," remarked Draco, inhaling with enthusiasm. "Fancy that, now - a Slytherin being led into temptation by a Gryffindor. All these years of not smoking, and then a little goodie two shoes sullies me forever. I've been corrupted."

"Who in their right minds -- oh. Neville." Harry's scowl deepened. He felt a surge of something almost like jealousy. "You're a bad influence," he added. "Don't go getting Neville into trouble. He's had more than enough trouble already."

"Neville Longbottom can take care of himself," said Draco. He blew a smoke ring and then looked rather smug. "I've been practicing that," he confided. "You -- ah -- you just put your lips together and blow. I'm very good at that, for a relative beginner. So I've been told, at least, and I had no reason to doubt Justin's, ah, sincerity."

The sparkle in Draco's eyes left Harry in no doubt about that particular double entendre; his mouth was suddenly dry and his palms were sweating. This little assignation was perhaps not one of his better ideas after all.

"Look, when I want to know about your love life, I'll -- well, come to think of it, I think I can safely say I'll never want to know about your love life, Malfoy. Ever."

Draco was the very picture of wounded innocence. Harry didn't buy it for an instant.

"I'm just telling you how to blow smoke rings, Potter. What dirty minds you Gryffindors do have. I assure you that, hot stuff though I may be, I don't make a habit of setting my lovers on fire. "

Harry wished, with all his heart, that Draco would stop looking at him like he was made of chocolate. It was tremendously distracting, and it was doing unwelcome things to his pulse. Again.

"Can we just get on with it? Your note said you'd found a clue of some sort?"

Draco's expression became businesslike, although for the life of him Harry couldn't have said whether it was real or a pose.

"Dobby thinks he might have a clue. Although it might be nothing, of course, and I'd feel like a complete idiot taking this to Dumbledore. Merlin help me, I actually thought I'd ask for your opinion." He pulled a face. "You're quite good at this sort of thing, aren't you? Or at least you've not managed to get yourself killed yet, with all your foolhardy derring do. That has to be a good sign."

"And?"

"Well, apparently one of the other house elves mentioned that somebody has been having little tete a tetes in one of the corridors near the second wine cellar. More likely than not it's just a couple of starcrossed Ravenclaws, or something, but -- well, maybe not. Merrit -- that's the other elf, although heaven knows they all look much the same. Other than Dobby, of course -- his dress sense is fairly, ah, unique. Have you seen those socks? I'm doing my level best to convince him that cerise is not the new black, but he can't seem to comprehend the whole concept of a fashion crime. Although he is quite worried about the fashion police now, which I suppose is something. He keeps looking nervously over his shoulder."

"Malfoy. The point?"

"Right, sorry. Merrit the house elf. This is all terribly cloak and dagger, isn't it? And probably for nothing. Well, apparently Merrit has heard voices every Friday night, around midnight. Not distinctly -- he couldn't say who the speakers were, and he has been in the habit of simply keeping away from the room at that time. I think this kind of thing happens quite often -- courting couples, closet smokers, that kind of thing -- and usually the elves just leave people to it and tidy up after they've gone. But I've been talking to Dobby about all this business of the accidents, or not accidents, and I mentioned your idea that there might be more than one person involved. We were wondering how anyone would manage to plot, if that were the case, because it's the devil's own work trying to keep anything secret here -- and then Dobby remembered what Merrit had said about hearing voices. He's asked Merrit about it since, and Merrit seems to think that one of them is a student, but that the other one isn't. Although he couldn't hear them clearly enough to identify them, and hadn't been paying enough attention. I just thought that possibly it could be connected." He looked at Harry quizzically. "What do you think, Potter?

"God knows," said Harry. "Probably nothing, but there's only one way to find out. Friday night, you say? So if Merrit's right, they should be there tonight."

"Yes. That's why I thought you'd want to know today, so you could go and do your heroic Gryffindor thing." Draco smiled patronisingly, and Harry started to feel irritated.

"Too chicken to do anything about it yourself, Malfoy?" he couldn't keep the contempt out of his voice. It was rather comforting to see that this, at least, hadn't changed. Why on earth should he feel oafish and vaguely nervous around Malfoy when Malfoy was such a spineless excuse for a wizard? Harry felt the balance of power shift almost palpably, and he was glad. Malfoy looked rather put out.

"It's just that I'm not a macho idiot," he said, pointedly. Harry forgot to feel off balance and bridled at the implication.

"But you think I am? Sod you, Malfoy. You never want to get your precious hands dirty, do you? But you haven't got Crabbe and Goyle to run around after you now, and for some reason you think I'll do it instead? Well it's not me that everyone thinks is responsible for all these accidents, Malfoy. It's not me that's in danger of being kicked out of Hogwarts with nowhere else to go."

"I didn't ask you to help me with my bloody homework, Potter," snapped Draco. "You volunteered. And it wasn't my idea to start playing detective."

"But you're asking for my help now," said Harry unkindly. This was more like the old days; this was infinitely easier than the stilted conversations where Malfoy's flirting left him tongue tied. He was, he reminded himself, bigger than Malfoy, and stronger both physically and magically. There was no way Draco Malfoy should have the power to make him feel so damned vulnerable and awkward. Harry watched Draco's face, and was delighted to see him looking slightly lost.

"More fool me. I'm sorry I troubled you, Potter. I thought you'd enjoy the opportunity to play the hero. It's what you do, isn't it?"

"I'm not a bloody hero!" snapped Harry frustratedly. "I wish you'd all stop expecting so damned much."

"Fine, you're not a hero. And I'm not a coward."

"Yes you are, Malfoy. Don't kid yourself. You're not much use at Transfiguration or Muggle Studies, but if they had NEWTs in running away you'd pass with flying colours."

"Fuck right off," said Draco. His pale skin was starting to flush, and it wasn't very attractive after all. Harry smiled.

"With pleasure. I've got plenty of things I could be doing with my time. Places to go, people to see. Some of us actually have friends, Malfoy." He turned his back on Draco and walked away, feeling decidedly victorious.

"You don't have friends, Potter," Draco called out behind him. His voice was shaking with anger or frustration. "You have sidekicks. There's a difference."

"You'd be the expert on that, wouldn't you?" Harry called back, without looking over his shoulder.


	25. Chapter 25

They both reached the kitchen at the same time and paused outside, looking at each other uncertainly. It was Harry who peered around the door first, and Draco was relieved to see Harry lower his wand and step inside. He followed him cautiously into the room and then groaned at the sight of the Hogwarts poltergeist bobbing brazenly in the air above a broken plate.

"It's just Peeves," said Harry in disgust. Draco rolled his eyes.

"You don't say? Really can't get anything past you Gryffindors, can we?" He scowled at the poltergeist. "Don't you ever sleep?"

"What a stupid waste of time." Harry turned his back on the ghost and shook his head incredulously. He felt like a complete fool.

They both headed towards the door. Behind them the ghost let out a howl of frustration, and it was only the faintest dark flicker in his peripheral vision that alerted Harry as a chair came swooping through the air towards them. He was already ducking and lunging at Draco before he had time to feel astonished, and the solid oak passed through the air where Draco had been only a moment before, and within inches of where Harry's skull was at that very moment, as the two of them fell towards the floor. Draco made a soft, startled noise as the air left his lungs and Harry landed on his chest. Harry had a split second to register that Draco smelled really, really good before Peeves started screaming behind them and then he was rolling to one side and drawing his wand in one swift motion. He was flat on his back, but he was still fast enough to deflect the shoal of glittering knives that darted through the air towards them without having to think about it; not for nothing had Harry Potter spent all those hours working at Defence Against the Dark Arts.

"What the hell…?" exclaimed Draco, sitting up shakily and sounding quite as baffled as Harry felt. Before Harry could demand an explanation from Peeves, however, all the cupboard doors flew open simultaneously, and then the air was thick with copper and iron and steel as skillets and saucepans and countless kitchen utensils hurled themselves towards the two wizards. Harry turned them into butterflies at the same time as Draco hurled a fireball at them. Smoke filled the kitchen, stinging Harry's eyes and scorching his throat. Ash and tiny charred fragments of rainbow coloured wings settled on his upturned face. He coughed, and heard Draco coughing somewhere in the smoke beside him. "What is the meaning of all this?" Draco exclaimed in an outraged rasp. Harry could perfectly imagine his expression and it made him smile despite everything. He reached out blindly with his left hand and found Draco's elbow. He felt Draco flinch slightly, and then Draco's long fingers found his and laced between them. Draco squeezed his hand tight, and even though he knew it just meant Draco was being friendly and maybe a tiny little bit scared, Harry shivered. A moment later Harry had scooted up beside him and they were both sitting with their backs pressed to the wall, coughing and trying to make sense of events as they squinted through the smoke.

And then Peeves swooped through the smoke in a crazy, fluttering, bat-like movement, and it was suddenly raining flour. Draco swore and conjured up a shield spell, but not before they were both covered with white powder.

"Spoiling it! Stupid little kiddie winks, spoiling everything! Nosy parkering!" Harry swung around, but he couldn't see Peeves anywhere. Several dozen eggs and a set of the second best soup plates whizzed towards them, but Draco deflected them easily enough. They shattered loudly.

"I really, really hate ghosts," hissed Draco with feeling. "This is stupid. I must look like I've been attacked by a mob of angry bakers."

"Peeves, what are you doing? Stop messing around, you idiot. You're going to hurt somebody. This isn't funny."

The lights all flickered and went out.

"Nice work, Potter," Draco said evenly. "That certainly showed him."

"Not joking. No more joking. Yolking. Hahahaha!"

Beside him Draco flinched and gave a stifled gasp, letting go of Harry's hand in the process. Very suddenly he wasn't at Harry's side any more.

"Draco?" Harry felt a surge of real anger. "Peeves, stop this right now," he said to the darkness. The lights stayed out. Peeves began to giggle again.

"Fine. Lumos." The lights returned, and for a moment he saw Draco hanging in mid-air. Peeves stopped giggling and Draco dropped to the floor like a stone. "Ventosus." The smoke blew away. "Captio." Peeves was dragged kicking and screaming into an empty jam jar. "Infragilis." The jam jar became unbreakable. Harry got to his feet, raked a hand through his hair and stood poised before the jam jar, breathing a little too quickly. Inside it, Peeves wriggled uselessly. Harry's smile was cold as he screwed on the lid.

Behind him Draco groaned, and Harry spun on his heel.

The kitchen was a shambles. Much of the flour and ash had been blown up the chimney a moment before, but the walls were still covered with streaks of yolk, and broken crockery littered the floor. In the midst of it all Draco Malfoy lay sprawled on the floor like a broken doll. He was absolutely covered in flour, and this only served to emphasise the blood streaking his chin. Harry felt sick.

"Shit! Shit, are you all right? I thought - shit!" His knees banged painfully on the floor as he reached Draco's side. Draco blinked up at him.

"I have felt better," Draco allowed. His voice sounded thick and awkward. He sneezed, and his head banged against the floor, and then he sneezed again. "Damn." Draco sat up slowly, wincing, and licked his lips. His wet mouth was obscenely red in the middle of his flour-coated face.

"You're bleeding," said Harry unnecessarily. He was finding it a little hard to breathe. Draco wiped his chin, smearing the flour and the blood ineffectually.

"No thyid," he said, his voice a little muffled but as Draco-like as ever. "Id'th nothing - I dyuth' bi' my dung when I hi' the floor." Harry, grinning at the lisp, watched his own fingers cup Draco's bone-white chin as if they belonged to someone else. Draco's eyes widened, and Harry's thumb moved in a slow circle to brush the blood away from the corner of Draco's mouth.

"Let me see," he said. Draco stared at him uncertainly.

"All thethe yearth of thdicking my dongue ou' a' you do pith you off, an' now you're athking me do do it? I'm loothing my dutch." He stuck the tip of his tongue out for Harry's inspection, but when Harry touched it with one curious finger he pulled away as if burnt.

"Podder, whad the hell are you playing ad?"

"Nothing. I just want to fix it," said Harry in his most reasonable voice. His heart was pounding so loudly that Draco must surely, surely be able to hear. "Come back here."

"I can fikth i' mythelf," said Draco. "It'th fine."

"Shut up and let me help you, Malfoy." They glared at each other, and then Draco stuck his tongue out again and was unable to maintain his glare. Harry waved his wand.

"Salve."

"Hmmph. Well, okay, yes. Thank you. You're making a sort of habit of this lately, Potter. But I could have fixed it myself."

"I know." Harry got to his feet, pounding ineffectually at his flour-coated robes, and then offered Draco his hand. Draco looked at him oddly. "Come on." He pulled Draco to his feet. After a moment Draco glanced down at their joined hands quizzically.

"You can let go now," he said, sounding slightly amused. "I'm not going to fall back down." Under his dusting of flour, Harry felt his cheeks growing red. He released Draco's hand guiltily and turned to glare at Peeves instead. Draco joined him. "What the hell was all that about, do you suppose?"

"I haven't the foggiest," said Harry, staring at the jam jar. Peeves pounded on the glass with his tiny fists. "But I don't think that was just mischief. I think he meant business."

Draco frowned. "I don't know, Potter. I mean, it's practically the Peeves job description, isn't it? Break things, be a pain in the neck, all that kind of thing. But – yes. I do know what you mean. It seems a little fishy that we were distracted at that precise moment."

"Do you think he's something to do with all this?"

"Yes. No. Oh, I don't know." Draco perched on the edge of the table and patted ineffectually at his snow-white robes. A cloud of flour billowed out of them and he started coughing again. Harry rolled his eyes, and after a moment he joined Draco on the table.

"We didn't make a very good job of this, did we?"

"Not especially," agreed Draco.

Harry peered at the stoppered jar thoughtfully. "I'm going to be in trouble over this, aren't I?"

"I shouldn't think so," said Draco sourly. "You're Harry Potter. You get away with murder." He sighed. "But from now on I'm definitely leaving you lot to do this kind of thing on your own, and the hell with your stupid reverse psychology. There's a reason I'm not in Gryffindor: this is not my cup of tea." He was about to expand upon the stupidity of Gryffindors, when he suddenly caught an all-too-familiar glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye; a half-seen movement where all should be still. His head snapped around at once and he was off the table and clasping his wand before he had made any conscious decision to move.

"Draco?" Harry sounded baffled.

"Did you see that?" Draco's voice was shaking. Harry stared around the kitchen for some clue.

"What?" he asked at last. "There's nothing there, Draco."

"I – nothing." Draco visibly tried to control himself, but he still didn't look happy. "It's just - hmm. Never mind." He crossed his arms in front of his chest and Harry was struck for the dozenth time by the realisation of how skinny Draco was these days.

"What?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it. It's fine."

"Oh no you don't." Harry's hands looked too large when they closed on Draco's shoulders, and Harry was surprised again by how much taller than Draco he had grown this past year. Draco had to look up, which must have gone thoroughly against the grain, and he was scowling ferociously.

"You look like an angry geisha," he said, half-laughing.

"Is that some sort of demon?" snapped Draco.

"Not quite. Come on, spill. What's the matter?"

"Bugger off." Draco tried to pull away, but Harry's fingers tightened on his shoulders and he couldn't move without resorting to an undignified bout of wrestling. "Good grief, Potter. What's wrong with you? It's fine. I'm fine. There's absolutely no need for this display of Gryffindor machismo." Harry just looked at him. After a lengthy pause, Draco sagged. "It's just that I'm still seeing things -- although it feels more like I'm the one being seen. I thought it was some sort of monitoring spell, something that Dumbledore had set up – but when I asked him, he said he wasn't watching me. But I'm still – ah, shit. I thought it had stopped. But – look, it's fine. I'm fine. Satisfied?"

"You're scared," said Harry slowly. Draco yanked himself violently away from Harry's relaxing grip and raised his wand.

"I am not scared," he snarled. "It's just a bit creepy. Don't you dare even think that I'm – oh, fuck you, Harry Potter."

Harry had a terribly inappropriate impulse to shove Draco down onto the floury table and kiss the anger out of him, but he ignored it resolutely. It was, of course, possible that Draco was cracking up, but Harry didn't think so. Someone had been trying to set Draco up ever since he arrived back at Hogwarts; now it seemed that someone had also been trying to spy on him the whole time. All in all, Draco was bearing up remarkably well. "Sorry, I didn't mean it to sound - sorry. I know you're not scared. You're one of the bravest people I know." Draco looked utterly dumbfounded. Whoops, thought Harry belatedly, but he ploughed ahead. "Uncomfortable, I should have said. Or creeped out, or something. I remember how it felt when Dobby was playing tricks on me to protect me from your father and I simply couldn't figure out what was going on – it's not a nice feeling. I know you're not scared scared."

"What?"

"Or pissed off, even. I can see that you're pissed off, which is understandable if Snape or somebody's spying on you, or whatever it is that they're doing – especially since somebody's been trying to set you up. And pissed off is something you do very well, after all."

"You're babbling, Potter." Harry was relieved to hear that Draco sounded almost amused.

"Possibly. But I didn't mean to upset you. We should tell Dumbledore you're still seeing – well, whatever it is that you're seeing. And we should tell him about Peeves. It could all be connected." Draco stared at him openly.

"Potter, have you been drinking?"

"What? No!"

"I will never understand Gryffindors. You really are the strangest beasts."

"Coming from a Slytherin, that's pretty rich."

"We tend to be pretty rich in Slytherin, Potter," agreed Draco with a smile. "So we'll tell Dumbledore, then?"

"Yes."

"But not until the morning."

"What? But I thought you didn't want - ?"

"I'm fine, Potter. I can cope with a few hours of feeling creeped out - Merlin knows it won't be the first time. We can't wake up the headmaster at this hour. He gets little enough sleep as it is."

"Oh. Right. Well, if you're sure?"

"Perfectly sure - but thank you for your touching display of concern. Are you going to keep Peeves, then? Or shall I?"

"I'll take him," said Harry, and he picked up the jam jar and tucked it into his pocket. They left the kitchen with shards of shells and crockery crunching underfoot. "I'll walk you to Slytherin," Harry said after a moment. Draco looked startled.

"Potter, exactly when did you appoint yourself my bodyguard? And why, in the name of all that's magical?"

"Because you need one," said Harry without thinking.

"What?"

Harry tried again. "Because the bad guys are after you. My enemy's enemy is my friend, kind of thing." He grinned. "Even when my enemy's enemy is the poster boy for Slytherin."

"Ex-poster boy for Slytherin, thank you," said Draco with an unwilling smile. He rubbed his nose with the bck of his hand. "I can't claim to be winning any popularity contests in my own House right now."

They walked on, leaving floury footprints in their wake, listening carefully as they neared the room where Merrit claimed to have heard secret assignations. Silence.

Harry stared at the door as they passed it, and his fingers closed around Draco's arm warningly. Draco frowned, and followed Harry's gaze.

The door was ajar. The door had very definitely not been ajar when they followed the clattering sound downstairs.

They drew their wands simultaneously.

Draco strained his ears, but he could hear nothing. He looked at Harry quizzically, and was suddenly conscious that they were both still coated head to toe in flour. Not a vision to terrify anyone, Draco reflected, with a sense of desperate hilarity. He stepped closer to the door, listening hard. Still nothing. Harry met his eyes. They stood quite still for a very long moment, waiting for some kind of sign, and then, with hideously predictable Gryffindor recklessness, Harry shrugged and dashed inside.

"Potter!" Draco groaned, following him. He was not, Draco insisted to himself as he chased Harry Potter into the room, turning into Ron Weasley. Absolutely not. Under any circumstances.

"Empty," announced Harry, sounding disappointed. Draco looked around him, clutching his wand tightly and braced to hurl hexes at the drop of a hatpin. There was, indeed, nobody there but them. He heaved a sigh of relief. "Damn," said Harry. "But somebody was here, weren't they? While we were downstairs on a wild goose chase. Ghost chase. Whatever. Somebody was here, and they used Peeves to distract us."

"That's quite a leap," said Draco, still clasping his wand warily. "It could just be the wind, or, or a house elf passing by and opening the door, or something." He wasn't convincing himself. "Possibly?"

"Possibly – but I don't think so."

"No. No, me neither. Bugger." They both looked around helplessly. "But they've gone now, whoever they are. Damn."

Decidedly crestfallen, the two of them stepped back through the door and headed through the darkened corridors towards Slytherin.

"Potter, how did you know that Snape set me up over the troll thing?" Draco asked at last, not looking at him. He had been turning this question over for some time. "I mean, I knew it wasn't me, but I can see absolutely no reason why you would think it wasn't me. None."

"I just do," said Harry too fast, feeling himself redden. He pulled himself together and added, "I don't like you all that much, obviously, what with you being an obnoxious, over-privileged Slytherin with a tongue like a razor and the personality of a blast-ended skrewt, but I do believe you. And if it wasn't you, it had to be someone who could get into a room in Slytherin unnoticed. And he was at the scene of the crime. It doesn't take a genius to work it out."

"Mmmm." They walked for several minutes. "Well, but I don't see why you believed me in the first place," Draco finally said, in a small voice. "We've never been friends."

"No," admitted Harry. "Um. No. But – look, just accept it. I believe you." He glanced sidelong at Draco and didn't know what to make of his expression underneath the coating of flour.

They continued in silence for a while. Harry kept glancing over his shoulder. Draco looked similarly jumpy.

When they reached the Slytherin guardian portrait, they paused. Harry bit his lip.

"Right. Well, I'll see you at breakfast, then," said Draco. His voice was brittle, and Harry found he couldn't bear the thought of Draco lying alone in the empty room, jumping at every stray creak.

"I could come in," he blurted out. Draco stared at him. "I could stay with you, if you like. Just tonight. If you're feeling creeped out by this whole spying thing that may or may not be happening."

"What? Don't be ridiculous."

"Tell me you weren't relieved at the thought of having someone else in the room with you."

"Well, I -- don't be ridiculous, Potter." Draco was at a loss for words, which wasn't something that happened every day. After a moment he added mockingly, "Besides, aren't you scared I'll try to ravish you?"

"No."

"Oh." He looked crestfallen. There was another little pause. "This is ridiculous. I'm not a child. I don't need someone to hold my hand."

"I know. But it's late, and I'm tired, and you've got all those empty beds."

"Well, I -- well. All right, then. But I'm not scared."

"I know that."

* * *

 

The showers in Slytherin were very much like the showers in Gryffindor. Harry had waited until he was sure that Draco had disrobed and stepped into a cubicle before he darted into the room, grabbed a towel, pulled off his own floury robes and ducked inside a cubicle at the other end of the row. Once inside he stared at the tiles and tried very hard not to think about the fact that Draco Malfoy was wet and naked and only a few hundred yards away. His imagination, to Harry's dismay, proved entirely too vivid. After a guilty moment or two of visualising the tumble of water onto Draco's skin he shook his head and tried to think of Cho. To his mortification, he was completely unable to summon up her face - and every time he tried, she blurred into someone else. Someone suspiciously pale and skinny and lacking in curves.

Oh boy, thought Harry. I really am in trouble.

He shivered, and in desperation turned his own shower to the coldest possible setting and thought about the Dursleys.

 

* * *

 

"There's a shirt you can use on the bed," said Draco when Harry finally made his way into the bedroom with a towel round his hips and his robes bundled up in front of him. Draco was tucked up under the covers already; Harry recognised the purple check pyjamas.

"Thanks. You didn't have to - well, yes. Okay. Thank you." He dropped the robes at the foot of the bed closest to Draco's and pulled on the shirt over his towel, conscious of Draco's eyes on him all the while. "Whose bed was this?"

"Goyle's."

"Oh." There wasn't a great deal one could say to that. He shrugged off the towel, pulled back the covers and got inside. "Right. Well, good night."

"Good night, Potter." Malfoy murmured "Nox." The lights dutifully went out. Harry lay quite still and tried to will his body into slumber. He didn't feel tired. Indeed, parts of him were quite embarrassingly awake. After a longish interval Draco's voice cut through the silence.

"Potter? Are you still awake?"

"Hmm?"

"Merlin knows your head doesn't need to get any bigger, but -- I just wanted to say thanks. You know - for believing in me." Harry stared blindly up at the ceiling, burningly conscious of the last time he had been in this room, and felt like a total heel. "I don't get it, and it doesn't change the fact that you're definitely the most irritating person I've ever met, but -- well. I appreciate it. That's all."

"You're welcome," Harry said eventually. He lay there thinking dark thoughts, and eventually his body realised that it was after two in the morning and he drifted off to sleep.


	26. Chapter 26

Waking up in the dark in the middle of Slytherin was just as disorienting the second time around. It took him a moment or two to remember where he was, and to register that the sound he had heard was Draco muttering in his sleep. Harry's fingers had closed over his wand even before he was fully conscious; now he quietly summoned a ball of witchlight and slid out of bed, glancing around for any sign of the Bloody Baron. Nothing. He felt like he had only just fallen asleep.

Draco was having another nightmare, and it occurred to Harry to wonder if this was a regular occurrence. His hair was almost dry, and it stuck out at ridiculous angles. His forehead was damp and his ludicrously long eyelashes were clumped wetly together. He was frowning, and he was also, quite definitely, the most beautiful thing Harry Potter had ever seen; nevertheless, although Harry had indulged in some quite vivid fantasies involving Draco Malfoy sprawling helplessly like this, at this precise moment Harry wanted nothing more than to make everything better and chase the demons away forever. Harry chewed his bottom lip uncertainly, and then reached over and touched Draco's shoulder gently. When Draco didn't respond, he increased the pressure and finally shook him.

"Malfoy? Draco? You're having a bad dream. It's just a dream. Wake up."

" - ther?" Draco blinked groggily at Harry. "Wha - ? Potter? Oh."

"You were talking in your sleep. You okay?"

"Shit. I was just - it was nothing," Draco snapped. "Go back to bed." There was a little pause and then he added crossly, "Sorry I woke you."

"No, it's fine. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No!"

"All right." Harry looked at Draco uncertainly. "Do you - ah. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I could get in with you. If you like."

"What?" Well, that had distracted him, if nothing else. Draco looked astounded. "What?"

"I don't think it's good for you to be so alone."

"Harry Potter, what in the world -- look, people don't just get into bed with their friends. Especially men. Men don't do that, in case you missed the memo. Straight men in particular. And we aren't even friends. What are you talking about?"

"I'm saying that you might sleep better with someone else there to keep the dreams away. And I don't much want to keep getting woken up every half hour for the rest of the night."

"I didn't ask you to stay."

"I know. I'm here, though. Oh, sod this. Shove over."

"But I don't -- but this isn't -- but, look. Oh. Hey, cold feet! Watch it!"

"Stop whining, Malfoy." Harry's brain was demanding to know just what the hell he thought he was doing, but his body was rejoicing. Draco Malfoy smelled great, and he needed a hug more than pretty much anyone Harry could think of. Draco had his back to him in an affronted attempt to pretend that this wasn't happening, and Harry curled up against Draco's spine. "I know friends don't get into bed with friends, but we aren't friends, so it's okay."

"No, that doesn't make sense," protested Draco. Harry slipped his arm around Draco's waist and rested the flat of his hand against Draco's chest, and Draco's protests dried up.

"It feels nice, though, doesn't it?" said Harry. "Now go to sleep. I won't let anything hurt you."

"Are you taking the piss, Potter? Because I swear, if you're taking the piss I'll kill you with my bare hands." Draco's voice was unsteady, and it didn't sound very much like the voice Harry knew. Harry wondered, not for the first time, just what the hell had happened to make him run away from Malfoy Manor.

"Shut up, Draco," he said affectionately, and he pulled Draco back against his chest for emphasis. The blond hair tickled his nose and Draco made a small, muffled sound not unlike a hiccup. Harry smiled. "Everything's going to be fine. Now go to sleep."  
* * *

The first thing Harry felt when he woke up again was the warm pressure of pyjama-clad limbs tangled with his. The first thing he heard was uneven breathing that might have been his own, but wasn't. The first thing he smelled was a mixture of soap and clean sweat and Draco Malfoy that went straight to his nether regions. The first thing he saw in the blushing dawn light was Draco Malfoy's eyes, huge and stormcloud-grey and brimming with uncertainty and unspoken questions. And the first thing he tasted, before his brain woke up properly and reminded him just how the world worked, was Draco Malfoy's wickedly soft mouth and his startled pink tongue.

The borrowed shirt had worked its way up to his chest in the night, and he had one leg wedged between Draco's thighs in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Harry's dreams had been exceptionally vivid and they had all featured Draco Malfoy in a starring role; the shift from sleep to waking scarcely registered, beyond the fact that Draco felt wonderfully, wonderfully good in the waking world. He wriggled and shifted until he had Draco pinned under him, kissing him all the while and pouring weeks of stifled desire into the kisses as he ground himself down against the purple checked cotton in a way that made it very clear that the excitement was mutual. Draco's fingernails bit into the soft flesh of Harry's bottom, pulling him in closer, and Draco's mouth was hot and wet and entirely welcoming, and for one long moment it was absolutely perfect.

And then Draco froze, and tore his mouth away, and shoved Harry off him with unexpected violence.

"Wha - ?" said Harry, rolling onto his back.

"What the fuck do you think you're playing at, Potter?" Draco demanded shakily. He looked furious, which was no mean feat in purple check pyjamas and with his mouth still glossy from Harry's kisses. "Just what the bloody buggering hell are you doing? You're -- I'm -- good grief! What was I thinking? You total bastard."

"What?" said Harry again, sitting up and trying not to panic. This was not going according to plan. Not that he had been planning waking up like this, exactly, but if there had been any plan, then in no universe would it have involved this turn of events. He met Draco's withering gaze and his stomach lurched. This needed fixing immediately.

"You total, utter bastard," repeated Draco. He looked pale.

"I didn't mean -- what?" He started to reach for Draco, certain that if he could just touch him again, kiss him again, then Draco would stop this nonsense. It had been perfect, and Harry wasn't about to let it all go wrong now. He was only just realising that he'd wanted this forever, and he was sure Draco wanted it too, whether he knew it or not - and if they could just get back to where they were a moment ago Harry could show him how absolutely right it was. But Draco flinched away, and Harry froze, baffled and hurt.

"Is this for a bet?" demanded Draco hoarsely. "This is for a bet, isn't it? See how easy Malfoy is? Wait until he's feeling vulnerable and tired and lonely and crap and then -- you -- I -- there aren't words for how low you are. This is all just – I don't want this. It's bullshit. You're in love with that bloody Ravenclaw bint, and I'm with Justin. Kind of. Or at least – at least he isn't pretending to be my friend and then – oh, fuck. I mean, I know I said we weren't friends, but I still thought -- oh, you total bastard. It's always about using people for something and you've just been playing me, haven't you? So you can laugh about it with your little friends. You're straight, and I'm an idiot." He glowered. "I'm so fucking sickof playing games, Potter. You've got a bet on with Weasley or Thomas, haven't you?"

Harry felt like he'd been punched.

"Of course it's not for a bet, you prat. What are you talking about? And -- hello? You were kissing me right back, Mr I'm-going-out-with-Justin. Don't tell me you weren't enjoying that, because we both know you were." He glanced down at his lap and pulled the covers over himself. "This isn't for a bet. I'm not that good an actor." Draco stared at him blankly, pulling his knees up under his chin and wrapping his arms around them. He looked painfully fragile, and Harry felt quietly sick at the lost expression on Draco's face, and at the realisation that he had put it there.

"I don't understand you, Potter," Draco said. Harry made a wordless sound of pure frustration. This was all going needlessly, stupidly wrong.

"What's to understand? I'm sorry -- I was half asleep and I wasn't thinking straight, but -- "

"You can say that again," Draco snapped. "That was anything but straight."

"Yes. But -- look, Draco. I fancy you. Okay?" He'd been going to such lengths not admitting this to anyone, and now it was all pouring out in a desperate flood, because Draco had to understand right now, and had to stop looking at him like that. "I fancy the pants off you. I can't stop thinking about you. I've been wanting to do that so much, ever since before you kissed me and -- Ah. I mean, ever since -- um. I just have. Come on, calm down. I'm sorry. You're unbelievably annoying, you're a Slytherin, you're rude, you're totally full of yourself and your father has tried to kill me at least twice. But I can't stop thinking about you. And I've seen the way you look at me, Draco. You like boys. I like boys. I like you." Draco stared at him.

"You're serious," said Draco after a moment. "Merlin's hat- - I do believe you're serious." Harry's heart leapt. He watched hope and mistrust and uncertainty chase one another across Draco's face, and without pausing to wonder whether it was as good idea he reached out and captured one of Draco's hands. Draco let him, frowning still but no longer looking so wrathful. Harry's thumb traced the bumps in Draco's knuckles whilst he searched Draco's face.

"Draco, I've never been more serious in my life. I know everyone will take the piss out of me -- I know that the only thing that could shock them more than telling them I think I'm gay would be telling them I'm seeing a Malfoy. I know it isn't what my Mum and Dad would have wanted. I know all that, but, Draco -- I don't care."

Draco wasn't returning Harry's caresses, but neither had he reclaimed his hand, and that had to be a good sign. In the silence that followed, Draco stared into his eyes and Harry mustered a hopeful smile.

"What did you mean, about me kissing you?" Draco asked slowly. "Because you weren't talking about this, were you? You were talking about something else." Harry's heart sank, but he squared his shoulders and reminded himself that honesty was the best policy, or good for the soul, or something along those lines.

"Well. Yes. You see, you sort of kissed me once before. Ah. Accidentally." Draco blinked. Harry's mouth felt dry.

"What? I did no such -- what are you telling me?"

"Well. You see, at first we thought you were working for Voldemort." Draco nodded, his eyes never leaving Harry's face.

"I remember," he said slowly. "You and your little friends kept stalking me." He disengaged his hand from Harry's grip. Harry felt his face fall.

"Yes. Ah. Well, we thought it had to be you, you see. It seemed reasonable. So one night I decided - look, this sounds really bad, but you have to realise that it was all with the very best of intentions. Um. One night I searched your room, looking for clues." There was an excruciating pause. This all seemed a hundred times worse actually spoken out loud. Harry couldn't look at Draco for fear of what he might see. After a moment he felt the mattress shift. Draco got quietly out of the bed and started to pace, with his arms folded tightly in front of his chest. Harry watched him miserably.

"You did what?" Draco said at last. His tone was dangerously calm. Oh shit, thought Harry, looking at Draco's face. Oh shit.

"It was just that I thought -- damn. I'm really sorry. And then you kissed me."

"When?" Draco's voice was completely flat. Harry swallowed.

"Well, I was -- I had to get. Oh, shit. You see, you were asleep, and there was something in your pocket, and I thought - I mean, I was totally wrong, but I thought it might have been proof you were working for Voldemort. So I tried to get it. And then you rolled on top of me, and the next thing I knew your hand was - and you were kissing me. Shit. Shit, I'm sorry. But it wasn't anything bad, it was that picture of your mum, and I brought it straight back." Draco stopped pacing and stared at him. "That was the night Neville got attacked by the troll, so I knew it couldn't have been you because you were still fast asleep," said Harry, far too fast. He couldn't remember ever seeing Draco wearing such a frightening expression. "My God, you look just like your father," he exclaimed involuntarily. Draco froze completely. Harry could have bitten off his tongue.

"Get out."

"No, look -- this is all going wrong. You don't understand."

"Potter, I understand perfectly." His voice was low and deceptively calm, but he was shaking. "You have offended me in every conceivable way. Get out of my bed, get out of my room, and get out of my House. Right now."

"But I think- - but, look, I really do like you. In fact I think maybe I kind of -- well. I like you a lot."

"Fuck right off, Potter. This is ridiculous. I may be a poof, and you may be a poof, but that doesn't mean we're meant to be together. That doesn't mean a damned thing. Just go away. Go and play with Chang."

"Draco -- look, I've left her. I'm serious."

"That's too bad, Potter, because I'm not interested. Now kindly go to hell." Draco picked up his wand and the look that he directed at Harry made Harry suddenly conscious of his physical vulnerability. Draco's hair was beginning to fly up into a rough halo of static electricity and his wand was leaking power like a heat haze. For once Harry had absolutely no difficulty believing that Draco had worked for Voldemort. He stumbled out of bed and half-ran to the discarded pile of clothes that contained his own wand. Relief flooded him as his fingers closed on the familiar wood grain, but his heart ached. He had ruined everything. Draco watched him in silence as Harry pulled his flour-coated robe over his head. Everything, everything, everything had gone wrong, and there was nobody to blame it on except Harry himself. He kept on letting people down - Cedric, Remus, Padma and Parvati, Cho, Draco. People got hurt because of him, and people got killed because of him. If any harm came to Draco now, it would be on Harry's head.

He paused on the threshold and looked back, trying desperately to think of the precise words that would make it all okay, but there was nothing he could say. He took one last look at Draco, silent and dishevelled and lethal in his ridiculous pyjamas. His heart clenched painfully in his chest, and then he left.

* * *

 

By the time Harry got back to Gryffindor, however, he was starting to feel pissed off. Anger was considerably more pleasant an emotion than guilt, and the more he thought about it, the more pissed off he felt. Certainly it had sounded rather bad, when he was obliged to explain about the photograph and the accidental almost-kissing, but his conduct all along had been perfectly understandable and motivated by the very best of intentions.

And, more to the point, Draco Malfoy was a former Death Eater, (or at least trainee Death Eater), whereas he, Harry, had saved the whole damned world on more than one occasion. He was the good guy. Draco, on the other hand, was -- if not the bad guy, then at least the thoroughly unpleasant and morally ambiguous guy, whom anyone in their right mind would suspect of being bad. It was a perfectly understandable mistake.

Harry paused outside Gryffindor. The Fat Lady stumbled into view from the right of the frame, yawning hugely. Her hair was in curlers and she was wearing a flowery kimono and bunny slippers.

"Bit late to be gadding around, love," she pointed out grumpily. "Password?"

"I know -- I'm sorry. Effulgent."

"Right you are." The door swung open. Harry started to go in, and then he stepped back and looked at the picture again. The Fat Lady, on the brink of heading out of the frame once more, glanced over her shoulder in surprise.

"Can I ask you a question?" said Harry.

"Do you have to?" She yawned again, unhappily, but Harry wasn't to be put off.

"It'll just take a minute. Look, would you say I was attractive?" The Fat Lady stared. Harry helpfully turned so she could see him in profile, and then did a little twirl to afford her a view of him from all angles. Then he smiled his best smile. "I don't mean stunning, I don't mean I'd make the cover of Teen Witch Weekly, or anything. But still -- I'm not bad looking, am I? No warts, or, or unsightly blemishes. And I'm quite tall. I mean, Cho thinks -- thought -- I was handsome. And Ginny says I am, even though she doesn't seem to fancy me these days. But she says I'm nice looking. I think she meant that in a good way." He bit his lip. "Well? What do you think?"

"You're bonny enough, for someone in three dimensions," said the Fat Lady tentatively, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "You'll probably be a nice looking young man in a year or two, once you've filled out a bit. Make a handsome portrait, you would, with the right brushstrokes."

"In a year or two?" repeated Harry, crest fallen.

"Child, do you know when I was painted?"

"Well, I - "

"Don't answer that. A lady never tells her age, anyway. But you're a babe in arms, as far as I'm concerned. And you should be a babe in bed right now. Please. Go to bed."

"Right. Sorry. Thanks for that." He pulled the portrait closed behind him and stomped bad temperedly off to his dormitory, mulling over the fact that Draco Malfoy had turned him down in favour of Justin Finch-Fletchley. It wasn't like Draco had even known Justin Finch-Fletchley existed for most of their school career, for Merlin's sake! Justin was just another face in the Hufflepuff crowd. But Draco had even gone out of his way to find Harry on the train in first year. Draco had been the very first Hogwarts student Harry had ever seen. They had been rivals for years. That should count for something -- that should make Harry's admiration important, damn it all. And, okay, so Justin had grown into a fairly attractive bloke. Well, no, okay, a very attractive bloke. Stunning, even. But what had he ever done that was so spectacular?

Harry tried quite hard not to think about Justin on his knees in front of Draco, but without much success


	27. Chapter 27

It was not, perhaps, entirely surprising that Harry overslept. He hadn't got to his own bed until nearly six o'clock, after all. Ron had to forcibly draw all the curtains and drag half the covers off the bed before Harry reluctantly opened his eyes and surveyed a very dressed, very clean and showered and breakfast-ready Ron standing at the foot of the bed looking concerned.

"Blimey, Harry, d'you want to see Madam Pomfrey?" he asked guiltily, glancing down at the bedclothes bunched in his hand as if baffled as to how on earth they could have come to be there. "You look rotten."

"No, no," said Harry hurriedly. "I'm not ill. I'm just -- tired. Really bloody tired." Ron stared at him worriedly.

"Are you coming to breakfast? Because I think maybe you should take a restorative or something -- honestly, you look like death warmed up."

"Not attractive, then?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Sorry. Just -- look, you go on down to breakfast. I'll catch up. I'm fine. Really." Ron looked ready to object, but after a moment's consideration he shrugged and left the room. Harry could hear the receding voices of Neville and Seamus and Ron's hurried footsteps chasing after them. And then silence.

He ached with tiredness, and the memory of the previous night was crystal clear and utterly unwelcome. He had made a complete and utter fool of himself, and Malfoy was going to have a whale of a time humiliating him. He had even come with a hair's breadth of making some ridiculous declaration of love, which he realised, in the cold light of day, had just been his libido talking. What kind of tasteless, masochistic idiot would fall in love with Draco Malfoy? Fancying him was understandable -- Draco might not be particularly nice, but there was no denying that he was very nearly as attractive as he believed himself to be. If a person had to go around fancying other blokes, then it was understandable that they might find themselves fancying Draco Malfoy. Liking him was another proposition entirely. Hormones, Harry told himself disgustedly. It was all bloody hormones.

* * *

Draco had no appetite for bacon and eggs. He glanced bad-temperedly from one platter to the next, ruling out pastries, pancakes or black pudding, and glowered across at the Gryffindor table, where Harry Potter was notable by his absence. He was indulging in some deeply satisfying fantasies about Harry being eaten by dragons en route to the Great Hall when his attention was distracted by the arrival of the mail. As the air filled with feathers, Draco wondered wistfully whether he was ever going to get another letter from Goyle. Unsurprisingly, no such letter arrived this morning. Around him, however, letters and packages fell through the air into the hands of scores of more fortunate students, and Draco was irresistibly reminded of the good old days, when he used to receive letters and spectacular parcels from home at least once a week. Mostly from his mother, but Lucius had never stinted when it came to material goods.

His gaze shifted to the Hufflepuff table, and Draco was interested to see Justin catching a package dropped by an aristocratic-looking Eagle Owl. He cracked the wax open as Draco watched, and extracted a small box and a letter, but he didn't look particularly pleased about either. Some people, Draco reflected wryly, didn't know when they were lucky.

* * *

When Harry reached the Great Hall, breakfast was almost over. He strode into the room with his back very straight and his head held high, and he managed not to glance at the Slytherin table even once. His face ached from smiling. If Draco Malfoy dared tell a single soul about the previous evening's events, Harry swore to himself that he would Avada Kadavra him on the spot. He was horribly convinced that it might already be too late, and everyone would be watching and whispering and laughing about the scandalous news, but he was damned if he was going to give Malfoy the satisfaction of seeing him look concerned.

"Hey, Harry. We saved these for you," said Hermione, lifting the silver domed lid from a platter of croissants and crumpets. Both the croissants and the crumpets were piping hot despite Harry's lateness. He grabbed a couple and started to slather them with butter.

"Cheers, Hermione."

"Harry, are you okay?" she asked, looking at him quite hard. She sounded worried. Harry beamed at her, vastly relieved that neither of them seemed to have heard about his Big Gay Adventure.

"I'm fine," he said. "Really -- absolutely fine. Just had some problem sleeping -- you know how it is sometimes. Pass the strawberry jam?" Hermione's expression indicated that she didn't know how it was, but was prepared to go along with him anyway. "So, how are you this fine morning?"

Out of the corner of his eye Harry was conscious of a bright flicker of movement that could have been a head of ice-pale hair on the Slytherin table, but he heroically didn't look around.

"Fine," said Hermione, fiddling with her coffee cup. Harry made an effort to focus on his friends.

"Any interesting mail?"

"No, nothing much," she said hurriedly. Ron's expression darkened and it occurred to Harry a trifle too late that he was probably opening another can of worms with this conversational gambit.

"Just a postcard," said Ron from between gritted teeth. Hermione glared at him.

"Ron Weasley, if we have to go through this whole rigmarole every time I hear from Viktor, then as God is my witness I will hex you like you have never been hexed before. He's my friend. Get over it."

"But he's evil," protested Ron helplessly. Hermione closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

"Ron, you're not listening to me: Viktor is my friend. I am not an idiot. I know that I have to be careful about what information I include in my letters, because anybody could get hold of them. I can't live like this. It's ridiculous. Look, you simply need to decide whether or not you trust me, Ron." There was a pause, and Hermione's expression hardened. Harry put his half-eaten croissant back down and looked from one to the other, his attention well and truly caught. Hermione looked at Ron for a long moment. "If you honestly don't trust me, Ron, then I don't think we can be friends." She sounded sad. Harry gaped. This was considerably scarier than the shouting matches.

"Now don't be like that," Ron exclaimed. He looked shaken, as well he might -- Hermione seemed perfectly calm and perfectly earnest. "This is ridiculous. Of course I trust you, Hermione. I'd trust you with my life, you know that!" She turned to face him, her expression serious, and laid one hand on his arm. Ron jumped, and his face flamed up like he'd been scalded.

"Then do," she said. Ron opened his mouth and then closed it again. He stared down at the crumbs on his plate.

Out of the corner of his eye Harry was aware of a slender figure strolling towards Draco from the Hufflepuff table. His jaw tightened.

"Sorry," said Ron shakily. Hermione smiled, and to Ron's evident astonishment she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

"Apology accepted. So," she said, a little breathlessly, "are you ready for Potions?"

"Sorry?" said Harry, belatedly aware that he was being addressed. Over at the Slytherin table, Justin was leaning down and wrapping his arms around Draco's shoulders, murmuring something in his ears. Heads were turning, as heads tended to turn, but Harry's head was not one of them.

"I said, are you ready for Potions? Harry, watch what you're doing! Good grief, you're crushing that croissant to death! Or, well, you would be if it were alive. Although of course I don't suppose we'd be eating them if they were alive, so it wouldn't really be an issue, would it? Harry, what ever is the matter with you?" It wasn't like Hermione to babble so much. She looked rather red, he thought. Just what the hell was going on with the world?

"Sorry. What are you talking about?" Harry asked helplessly. He still hadn't looked directly at Draco. This really should merit a medal of some description, he felt. Self control above and beyond the call of duty.

"Harry, are you feeling all right? You look dreadful."

"Well, I have it on good authority that I'll look all right in a few years, when I've filled out a bit more. Provided I have the right brushstrokes."

Hermione blinked.

"I think maybe you should see Madame Pomfrey," she said carefully.

"I'm fine," said Harry. He stared at her, and then remembered to smile. "It's fine. Really. Everything's fine."

"Okay, now I'm starting to worry," said Ron. "Harry, mate -- what's up? You're acting all weird."

"Just tired," said Harry, still smiling. He hated Draco Malfoy with all his heart, and he hated Justin Finch-Fletchley even more. "Just tired," he repeated cheerfully.

* * *

Draco was waiting for him in the corridor. Harry froze, and Ron, whose attention was focused entirely on Hermione, bumped into him.

"Can we talk?" Draco asked, without preamble. Harry swallowed, hideously aware of Ron's curious gaze. It would only take a sentence or two for Malfoy to humiliate him utterly. He felt frustrated and helpless and downright furious that Draco had any power over him.

"Now?" said Harry.

"Now," agreed Draco. His expression remained cold and distant.

"Okay. Um -- see you back at Gryffindor," he said to his friends, without looking at them. He knew Ron would be outraged, but Harry turned his back on them both and followed Draco before Ron could start asking any embarrassing questions. His mind was spinning, and he was torn between feeling angry with Draco and worrying about whether Draco had already told Justin, and how long it would take for everyone to know that he'd tried to bed Malfoy, and actually been rejected, and what that would mean. And it really didn't help that Draco was still just as attractive as he had been the night before. "What's this about?" Harry snapped, when there was nobody in sight. "Do you want to apologise?"

Draco leaned against the stone wall and surveyed him expressionlessly. "Don't flatter yourself, Potter. What's happening with Peeves?"

"Give me a break," protested Harry, flushing. He had, to his considerable embarrassment, forgotten all about Peeves, but wild horses wouldn't have dragged this information out of him. "It's first thing in the bloody morning. I've barely had time to wake up yet. I'll take the jar to Dumbledore when I'm good and ready."

"Fine," said Draco, after a long moment, shrugging. Harry found his expression at this moment entirely impossible to read. "I'm sure you're on top of it."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Not particularly," said Draco. Harry stared.

"I haven't got time for this," he announced after a moment. "I've got to go."

"Did they find your little game amusing, then?" Draco called, as Harry stalked away. Harry paused and stared over his shoulder. "I trust that the Weasel had a good laugh at my expense?"

"Malfoy?"

"Yes?"

Harry scowled, and really wished that Draco had grown up ugly.

"Just fuck off, will you?"

* * *

Since he had a full timetable that morning, and since it was going to be a thoroughly embarrassing conversation, Harry put off taking the jar to Dumbledore until lunchtime. He really didn't want to start explaining to Ron or Hermione quite how he came to have Peeves trapped in a jar, any more than he wanted to explain why he was in a position to know that Draco hadn't summoned the troll. It wasn't like he was actually lying to them, though. He was just being economical with the truth.

Unfortunately Harry had not counted upon Dumbledore leaving Hogwarts for London shortly after breakfast. Seemingly the headmaster had to consult with the War Council, and so he was unlikely to return to Hogwarts for two or three days. The one comfort was that Professor Snape had been obliged to go with him, which meant that Snape would be unable to cause any trouble in the headmaster's absence.

Harry considered approaching Professor McGonagall, but upon reflection it seemed that the best thing to do was wait for Dumbledore's return. It was perfectly possible that Peeves had nothing to do with any of the accidents -- it was all just unsubstantiated guesswork at this point, after all. And as to the thing or things that Draco kept glimpsing out of the corner of his eye – well, Harry told himself viciously, Draco Malfoy was probably hallucinating.

Besides, the prospect of explaining the whole situation to Professor McGonagall was too mortifying for words. Telling Dumbledore about the whole business with the newspaper clipping had been quite embarrassing enough. With Snape out of the way there was no immediate urgency about it all.

Still, as he stomped back to Gryffindor Harry was both irritable and embarrassed at the whole situation, which he felt, for no very good reason, was somehow all Draco's fault. Bloody Draco, distracting him from his investigations. Harry must have been absolutely insane to think that he wanted anything to do with Draco Malfoy. Never mind how good he smelt, or looked, or felt, or -- this was all nonsense. In fact it wouldn't surprise Harry in the slightest if he discovered that Dean or Seamus or Ginny or someone had slipped him a few drops of Amas potion whilst he wasn't looking. That would certainly account for his ridiculous behaviour. Yes. That was probably it. It would all wear off in a day or two, and he'd stop having these excruciatingly vivid dreams and fantasies, and he'd get back with Cho, and everything would be comfortable and safe and normal again.

"Effulgent," he said to the Fat Lady, and the painting slid open. He stepped over the threshold just in time to see Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan acting out some kind of comical scene in the middle of the common room, to the great amusement of most of the assembled Gryffindors. Good old Gryffindor. Dean had caught Seamus up in a passionate mock-embrace and flung him back like a romantic hero in some black and white movie with a fainting damsel in his arms. Harry's brows quirked upwards at the sight. Seamus and Dean were always good for a laugh, and right now Harry could really do with something to take his mind off his own troubles. Ginny and Ron were both guffawing so hard that they risked rupturing something, but Harry noticed that Hermione looked decidedly uncomfortable. Of course, she had an overdeveloped sense of responsibility at the best of times. To Harry's surprise, though, Neville Longbottom was white faced and trembling. His mouth was drawn into a narrow line and his arms were crossed tightly in front of his chest. He looked absolutely furious. Harry looked back at the little performance, feeling rather puzzled.

"Oh, do it again, big boy!" Seamus squeaked up at Dean in a vaguely posh falsetto. He had enchanted his hair a shade of blond that Harry knew all too well, and Harry had a sudden sinking sensation. "Take me now! I feel so dirty in your Mudblood arms! Blowing You Know Who was never this much fun!"

"That's just too bad, precious," replied Dean, his voice unexpectedly lisping and effeminate. "You bore me. I've decided that I'm going to huff and then puff and then blow your House down, you useless little ferret."

"What are you saying?"

"You're just not greasy enough for me. I want a real man! Like. . . Professor Snape!"

"You cad!" gasped Seamus, fluttering his eyelashes. Harry stared at them, and felt himself growing cold. They were both laughing so hard that at this point Dean dropped Seamus altogether, and for a long moment Seamus lay there laughing helplessly. Dean, laughing just as hard, helped him to his feet and took the opportunity to grope his bum, and Seamus squealed and jumped away, flailing with limp wrists. "Unhand me, you filthy Mudblood beast!" he said, in a parody of Draco Malfoy's voice.

And Harry saw red.

He was, to be fair, quite as startled as the rest of his House by the depth of his feeling, and when he had the opportunity to reflect upon the matter he quite agreed that his reaction had been more than a little extreme. Harry honestly had no idea that he was going to hit anyone until he had already knocked Seamus to the ground and was in the process of punching an astonished Dean squarely in the nose, and by that point it was rather too late.


	28. Chapter 28

"I want to fuck you. Here. Now."

Draco Malfoy had absolutely no intention of having sex in the library. He might have bounded rather spectacularly out of the closet, and he might be prepared to brave the snide remarks and disapproving glares of half of Hogwarts, but he didn't relish the idea of being caught in flagrante by any Tom, Dick or Harry. Particularly Harry.

Justin, however, had other ideas.

"Shut up," hissed Draco, shivering at the delicate brush of Justin's lips against his ear. He had been sufficiently caught up in the essay that he hadn't heard Justin's approach and the first he knew of his lover's arrival was the lascivious whisper. Draco stifled a scandalised laugh and Justin leaned in closer and dropped a kiss on the pale line of Draco's throat. "You are absolutely bloody incorrigible."

"I said I want to fuck you. Here. Now." Justin's voice was pitched for Draco alone. His breath was warm against Draco's neck. "I want to get down under the table and push your knees apart." Draco stifled a gasp and Justin laughed delightedly as he slid into the chair at Draco's side and brought his mouth close to Draco's ear again. "And bury my face between your legs. I want to breathe in the smell of you as you get hard for me, Draco, because it's just so damned sexy. And I want to feel you getting harder through the layers of fabric."

"For Merlin's sake," exclaimed Draco, "will you please shut the hell up, you tart?" He was on the brink of dissolving into fits of laughter, or possibly shoving Justin down onto the floor and humping him fully clad. "We're in the flaming library!"

"I know," agreed Justin, cheerfully. "Isn't it perfect? I'm just saying -- I'd like to go down on you right now. Wouldn't it be a blast? All these virtuous little scholars busy about their work, and I just drop my quill and duck under the table to get it, and before you know it I'm inside your robes giving you the best blowjob of your life."

"Justin!" exclaimed Draco, his voice shaking with laughter as much as desire. "You're absolutely the most -- I mean -- we can't possibly!"

"Nonsense," said Justin, and he licked Draco's earlobe. "Nobody would see. Nobody would know, unless you gave us away. You'd have to stay perfectly quiet." His hand slipped casually off the table and found Draco's lap. Draco inhaled sharply. "You'd have to sit perfectly silent with my mouth wrapped around you and my tongue sliding hot and wet over your skin. Your fingers would grip the edge of the table -- yes! Yes, just like that, Draco -- and you'd have to bite your lip so hard that a single bead of blood would well up right in the centre, and later I'd taste it when I kissed you. You'd want to yell and scream, because you're noisy when you come, but you'd have to stay perfectly silent, like a good, hard working student, and not a single soul would realise that you were getting your cock sucked in the middle of the library." Justin bit down on Draco's earlobe hard, and Draco's gasp was loud enough to turn heads.

"Stop it!" he said out loud, half laughing, and his fingers laced with Justin's under the table, stilling them as he grabbed the nape of Justin's neck and pulled his face close for a kiss.

It was a long kiss, and rather more passionate than Draco had intended, and Justin's hand did nor remain entirely still after all. He broke it off at last, before matters got any further out of hand, as it were, and Justin grinned smugly.

"Look, you gorgeous, infuriating pest," Draco began, but the look on Justin's face left him tongue tied. He took a deep breath and tried again. "I can't -- I mean, I've got to work. I -- look, I really do have to do this."

"Why are you being so boring?" protested Justin, plaintively.

"Where do you think I'm going to go if Dumbledore kicks me out, Justin? How long do you think I'd last out of the protection of Hogwarts? I -- you know I want you. I do." He kissed Justin again, quite thoroughly, to underline his point. "Please -- just give me half an hour to get this out of the way, and then -- I promise not to be boring."

"But wouldn't you like to do it here?" said Justin, disarmingly. He leaned in closer again and lowered his voice a little more. "Wouldn't you like to find a secluded corner somewhere in the stacks where I could make you come with your face buried in the leather spines of ancient books and me buried in your beautiful arse?"

"Out!" said Draco, as firmly as he could manage. "Now! Shoo. I'll see you at the library door in half an hour, all right?" He was on the very brink of abandoning all work for the evening and devil take the consequences.

"You're no fun," said Justin, with more than a hint of a pout. "Where's the excitement when there's no risk of getting caught? Don't you like the whiff of danger?"

"I can be fun," Draco protested. "But -- oh, I wish you wouldn't -- damn it, Justin!" His gaze lingered unhappily on the curve of Justin's mouth, aware that he was having his strings pulled. "How in the name of Circe they ever put you into Hufflepuff just baffles me," said Draco at last, helplessly. Justin smiled.

"I'm loyal, of course! And very pragmatic," he said. "And logical. And I get things done. I'm not one for running stupid risks, so Gryffindor wouldn't suit me, and I'm not thick, but I'm no great academic, so Ravenclaw was out of the question." He looked at Draco with the strangest expression in his eyes and gave a twisted smile. "I could almost have gone into Slytherin, actually -- the hat wasn't entirely sure which was the best bet, and I'm pretty good at sneaky. I don't want to be the most powerful wizard in the world, though; I just like to be comfortable, and safe, and to be allowed to get along with my own stuff at my own pace. Plus the whole question of being, ah, a Mudblood." Draco winced. He hated the way that Justin said that word. "Not exactly popular in Slytherin."

"No. No, I suppose not," agreed Draco. He stared. "I had no idea the hat ever had trouble making up its mind. Or, you know, that it told people if it did -- I mean, obviously some people get sorted more quickly than others. It said Slytherin straight away for me."

"No big surprise there, lover."

Draco smiled.

"No. No, I suppose not. Anyway, this has nothing whatsoever to do with my essay. Please -- just go away and let me finish this." There was an embarrassing note of pleading in his voice, and he tried to modulate it a little. "You're far too tempting a distraction."

"I try."

"Well, you succeed," said Draco, with feeling.

"And that's not all I suck, is it?"

"Bugger off! Before I turn you into a toad. Or a table, or something else that doesn't have a sex life. A Gryffindor, perhaps."

Justin stood up, dropped a kiss on Draco's head, and left. Draco watched his departure half-reluctantly, and then settled down with a sigh to write the remaining eight inches of his essay as fast as was humanly possible.

 

* * *

 

"I still think it's Malfoy."

Draco froze, one hand poised to pluck an almanac from its shelf. The speaker was evidently resuming an earlier conversation, and after a moment Draco identified the voice as belonging to Ron Weasley. Which undoubtedly meant that Potter was on the other side of this particular stack of shelves. A wave of anger and disappointment surged through Draco again at the very thought of The Boy Who Lived. He had been an idiot to start to trust Potter. Just because his world had changed enough to admit Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and House elves into his immediate circle did not mean that Harry Potter was suddenly his friend. But it had felt like Potter was a friend, and Potter was the only other student who really knew what Voldemort was like - who didn't call him "You Know Who" and quake with some vague, borrowed dread, but instead called him Voldemort, or even Tom Riddle, and felt sick inside at the first-hand knowledge of what a horrifyingly powerful and psychotic bastard he truly was. That counted for a lot.

And Harry, like Neville, knew what it felt like to have lost one's mother to Voldemort and his followers. Wild horses would not suffice to make Draco discuss this with either of them, but the knowledge remained, and it left him feeling oddly vulnerable where they were concerned.

"It isn't Malfoy," said Potter, on the other side of the stacks. Draco was surprised to find that he was shaking. He leaned closer to the shelves.

"But how can you say that?" demanded Ron, his frustration evident. "He's the obvious choice. Somebody attacked Fang, somebody wrecked the Greenhouse, somebody trashed the potions cupboard. All this started after Malfoy showed up. After he defected -- or at least said he defected. He's a double agent, damn it. It's obvious. I don't understand why you keep on defending him."

Draco drew a shaky breath and replayed the conversation in his head. Evidently Weasley didn't know that Potter had been in Slytherin stealing photographs and feeling up unsuspecting sleepers whilst the attack on the Greenhouse occurred. Potter knew Draco was not responsible, but he hadn't told his little chums why he knew this. So it might have been an unforgivable intrusion, but at least it had not been a big preplanned joke at Draco's expense.

"But, Ron, if it's so obvious, why hasn't Dumbledore realised? He's not a fool. If he trusts Malfoy, he must have his reasons."

Granger. Draco wondered whether she was in on the joke and just protecting Weasley's tender sensibilities. It seemed unlikely. He thought back over his interactions with Harry Potter since returning to Hogwarts. It was, Draco reflected, seeming increasingly possible that Harry Potter really had embraced his inner poof at the same time as he was embracing Draco's outer poof. It hadn't been a game he was playing just to entertain Weasley and Granger with the story of how pathetically eager Draco Malfoy was to be touched, or how he was jumping at his own shadow and scared to sleep alone. Which didn't make the spying or the lying any better, to be sure, and it didn't make Potter any less of a smug Gryffindor pillock, but it was still good to know. It was even quite flattering. Unexpectedly Draco found himself on the brink of laughter. I'm so damned hot that I made Harry Potter gay, he thought to himself, and he had to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He wanted to tell Justin.

"Harry, I don't understand you. We talked about all this before. We've considered everybody, and Malfoy's the only person with motive and opportunity. And he's Malfoy, damn it! He's a pain in the arse. Of course it's him."

"Look, I -- I'm sorry, Ron. Please, just trust me on this?" Potter sounded thoroughly unhappy. "Malfoy is definitely the single most irritating person I have ever met, and he's every bit as arrogant as he was when we were kids, but that's not the same as being a spy for Voldemort." There was a little pause. Draco had always liked Harry Potter's voice. When they were children the trace of an unfamiliar Muggle accent and the occasional Muggle turn of phrase had been as fascinating as they were unacceptable. The timbre of Harry's adult voice, however, was sexy, plain and simple. Although it didn't make him any less of a prat. "I've been -- well, sort of keeping an eye on him. Asking around, that sort of thing. And the thing is that, yes, he's insufferable and smug and sarcastic and he's utterly convinced that the sun shines out of his own arse, but -- well. He's kind of okay. In a weird, Slytherin kind of way."

"What are you saying?" Weasley sounded ready to punch someone. Draco felt his eyes widening.

"It's just, well -- we don't know what happened when he left here, but -- I don't think he enjoyed hanging out with 'The Dark Lord' as much as he expected to." Well, there's an understatement, thought Draco. He wished that this was something he could talk to Justin about. "He's lost everything. And Dumbledore trusts him. I think we should give him a break."

"I don't understand you," said Weasley flatly. "It's Malfoy. You're acting really weirdly about him lately, but -- it's Malfoy. I don't get why you keep sticking up for him."

"I trust him," said Potter in a small voice, and he sounded so embarrassed that it had to be true. "I don't like him very much, but I do trust him. And I know that sounds crazy, because he's still Draco Malfoy, but -- well, he's not quite the gigantic prat that I thought he was."

There was a little pause. Draco didn’t know what to feel.

"Can I borrow that book, if you're not using it?" asked Granger when the silence had grown thoroughly awkward.

"Yeah. Sure." Weasley sounded pissed off. There was the harsh scrape of a wooden chair being shoved back. "I think I need some air."

"Ron, don’t be like that," called Potter unhappily. "Please?" There was no reply, and Draco listened with interest as Weasley's footsteps receded into the distance. "Oh, hell. He really does hate Draco, doesn't he?"

"Do unicorns shit in the woods?" said Granger, sharply. Draco bit his hand to keep from snorting out loud. He didn't know Granger knew language like that. There might be hope for her yet.

"Right. Of course he does. Fine. Shit. Why is life so bloody complicated?"

Why indeed, wondered Draco. He leaned against the bookshelves and closed his eyes, remembering all too vividly the unexpected sensation of kissing Harry Potter. Being kissed by Harry Potter. He was damned if he was going to start regretting anything he'd said to The Boy Who Lived the other night, but he was starting to find it difficult to feel pissed off.


	29. Chapter 29

Ron was sitting on the edge of the lake when Harry found him, skimming stones and scowling ferociously.

"You're going to annoy the squid," said Harry tentatively. Ron ignored him. Harry sighed and squared his shoulders. "Look, Ron, we need to talk," he said. Ron looked up at him for a long moment and then nodded.

"Okay."

Harry bit his lip. He looked out across the quiet water and thought about all the things that lurked underneath the surface. "Look, Ron, I owe you an apology. I've not been spending enough time with you lately, and I know you've been feeling mad with me about that, and about other stuff. And – oh, shit, Ron. I'm sorry. I thought – only I got it all wrong, and now I've ruined everything," said Harry miserably, sinking down onto the grass. Ron stared at him and reached out one hand uncertainly, his face contorted with startled concern.

"Blimey, Harry," he said, sounding suddenly like his old self. "You look terrible! What on earth happened? Is this about You Know Who?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, that's good. Cho, then?"

"No. Yes. No. Oh, Ron." Ron waited patiently whilst Harry tried to pull himself together. "Look - you aren't going to like this. But you're my best friend, my oldest friend, practically family - if I can't tell you this - I mean, I have to be honest, don't I?" His stomach was in knots and he felt sick with dread, but he'd had enough lying to last him a lifetime. He evidently looked as rotten as he felt, because Ron looked shocked.

"Bloody hell, mate! What have you done? You haven't murdered Snape, have you?" Harry smiled weakly.

"No."

"Good."

Harry drew a deep breath.

"I should have told you before – I know that Draco didn't summon the troll to the greenhouse. He couldn't, because he was asleep at the time. I was searching his room for clues, and I saw he was asleep. It couldn't have been him."

Ron stared. "But – Harry, why on earth didn't you tell me this before? And why didn't you ask me along?"

"Because – well. Um. See, I sort of accidentally – er. Shit. Ron, this isn't easy to say, because I kind of ended up – um. The thing is, I think that possibly - that it's conceivable that – oh, bloody hell." The last ripples of Ron's skimmed stone were fading away, and Harry could see clouds reflected in the surface of the lake. It all looked terribly normal. He drew a deep breath. "Look, don't take this wrong, but I think maybe I'm a little bit gay." Ron blinked. "Not so much 'maybe', actually. More – er, more definitely. Yes. Gay." Harry swallowed hard and ploughed on. "And – well, the truth is that I've got a thing for Draco Malfoy, and I kind of accidentally kissed him while I was searching his room. Or at least let him kiss me. Although he was asleep at the time. And I really didn't know how to tell you that, so I didn't say anything about it at all," he said. The words hung in the air, and Harry braced himself. There was a shocked silence.

"What?" Ron was every bit as dumbfounded as Harry had expected. "What?" he said again at last, and then comprehension dawned on his freckled face and he started to laugh. "My God - good one, Harry. You totally had me going for a minute. Fancying Malfoy! Snogging Malfoy! Can you imagine?"

"I'm serious," said Harry flatly.

"You're killing me, Harry," Ron snorted. He ruffled Harry's hair affectionately. "You twit, I was really worried."

"I'm serious, Ron." Harry's expression gradually made an impression on Ron, and he pulled his hand back and grew still. His eyes were like saucers.

"Oh my God - you're not - you aren't serious, are you?" Harry never, ever wanted Ron to look at him like that again. "You can't possibly be." He reminded himself that he hadn't been expecting Ron to just accept this, but it still hurt.

"I'm completely serious, Ron." Ron looked truly appalled. He got up and stood awkwardly a few yards away, staring at Harry. Suddenly his face lit up.

"It's a spell," he exclaimed, sounding relieved. He darted forward and crouched back on the grass again so his face was on a level with Harry's, smiling sunnily. "He's put you under a spell - damn, that's so like him, the filthy Slytherin bastard. That's why you've been sticking up for him. That's why you've been hanging out with him. It's a spell. That son of a bitch." Ron patted Harry's knee awkwardly. "You don't believe it now, Harry, but you've got to trust me - I know you. This isn't you. This has to be some spell or potion. I'll kill him, so help me. I'll wring his evil neck. Don't worry about it, Harry. I'll fix it." Harry felt sick.

"Ron, I'm not under a spell," he said, meeting Ron's gaze. "I've got the world's worst crush on Draco Malfoy. I can't stop thinking about him. I want to - look, I know what I'm talking about. The other night I tried to – well. Look, I fancy him. Maybe more than that. I -- I've never felt like this before."

"Stop saying that, damn it," snapped Ron, pulling away again. He looked ready to hit something. "It isn't true."

"It is true." Ron stalked away, shaking with barely contained anger, and Harry watched him. After several seconds Ron marched back and stood in front of him with an expression of forced patience.

"Look, you're Harry Potter," Ron said slowly and clearly, as if speaking to someone whose grasp of English was patchy at best. "You're my best friend. You like girls. Do you think I don't know whether or not you're queer, Harry? We've been sharing a room since we were eleven years old. What kind of pillock do you take me for? Harry, he's cast a spell over you." For a moment Harry could almost believe it himself. It was a very seductive explanation, after all. If Draco had cast a spell on him then it was all Draco's fault.

"Well, I suppose," he began, but ground to a halt. Draco had no more been expecting this than Ron had, and he had been genuinely furious. "No. No, Ron. It's not a spell. It's me."

"What are you saying? Are you asking me to believe that you just woke up gay? Because, Harry, I don't believe that happens."

"No," said Harry in a small voice.

"Then what? That you've been queer all along? Because that's rubbish. You've been in love with Cho for years. You like girls. You're normal, damn it. Well, better than normal - you're a hero, and you have a great destiny, and - but you're normal. It's a spell, Harry. We've got to tell Professor McGonagall."

"No!" Harry jumped to his feet and stepped forwards, and to his horror Ron backed away. "For the love of - look, Ron, this isn't a spell. Why won't you believe me? I'd know if it were a spell."

"But it doesn't make sense," Ron said stubbornly. "You're straight. You've always been straight."

"No." Harry turned his back on Ron and looked across at the comfortingly familiar shape of Hogwarts. "I don't know what I am, but I'm not straight. I've been trying to be straight, because I thought it was just a phase, and I didn't want to be a freak, but - well." He turned around again and looked at Ron. Confession was supposed to be good for the soul. "There have been other boys I've looked at - like that." Ron took a half step backwards and Harry felt like his heart was breaking.

"What?" said Ron. "Who?" Unspoken, Harry heard another, more specific and panicky question hanging between them, and he didn't know how to reassure Ron that he had never thought about Ron like that.

"Oliver Wood. And, ah -" Ron was not remotely ready to deal with the information that Harry had formed a brief crush on Bill Weasley. "A couple of other people. Um. Muggle film stars. Justin, even, especially since he came out of the closet. And Malfoy," he added heavily. "Malfoy more than anyone, and for the longest time. I told myself that it was a phase, and that it didn't mean anything, and I pretended it wasn't happening. I thought I was in love with Cho - I mean, I do love Cho. But I don't lust after her. I don't really want her, like that. I thought I did, and I've tried - I mean, she's the ideal girlfriend. She's pretty, she's smart, she flies like a dream, she likes me - but it just feels like kissing a sister. I'm just going through the motions, trying to be normal." He drew an uneven breath and glanced sidelong at Ron's horrified face. "But seeing Malfoy again - and getting to really see him, to know him -- there's no comparison. Cho isn't what I want."

"And Malfoy is? Malfoy? Harry, my God, if you could just hear yourself! This is so wrong." Ron's voice was rising, and Harry was conscious that somebody might hear them, but he wasn't sure that it mattered any more.

"No. It's perfect." Draco wasn't in awe of him in the slightest, and Draco was gorgeous and powerful and needed him, although he'd never admit it. And Draco understood about Voldemort in a way that the rest of the school really didn't. Draco knew. And Draco smelled so very good, and felt so very good, and tasted so very good. Harry couldn't imagine wanting anyone else. "Or - well, it would be perfect, if he wanted me. But he doesn't." Ron gaped.

"He doesn't - what? What? Is he insane?" Harry stared. "He'll shag Justin Finch-Fletchley, but he thinks he's too good for Harry Potter? What kind of nonsense is this?" After an astounded pause, Harry began to laugh. There was an edge of hysteria to it. "This isn't funny, Harry," said Ron. He dug another stone out of his pocket and threw it viciously out across the surface of the lake. It bounced nine times before sinking out of sight. "That smug Slytherin son of a bitch should thank all the stars that anyone would touch him with a barge pole. And he turned you down? He turned you down? That's the stupidest thing I ever heard."

"Ron?" Harry stepped closer and then hesitated. He looked at his best friend and tried to will everything to be all right.

"Yes?"

"I'm really, really glad we're friends. I can't imagine a better best friend, I really can't. Are you - do you think you're going to be okay with this? Because I can't lose you, Ron. You're family." Ron looked profoundly uncomfortable.

"You really do mean this, then? You really think you're gay?"

"Yes. I really do."

"Well. Damn." Harry bit his lip and waited. Ron started to pace. "Harry, it's not that I've got anything against - you know. Homosexuals. My Uncle Ginger was gay."

"Ginger? Ginger Weasley? That was his name? Isn't that a bit, well, redundant?" Ron grinned, and for a moment everything was normal.

"He had brown hair." And then Ron's smile faltered and he looked away again, and Harry felt his stomach knotting itself up once more. "But - look, Harry," Ron said unhappily. "I want to understand - I mean, I don't want to be a prat, here. But this feels really, really weird. All this time I thought - but - and you've seen me in my underwear." Harry chose his next words very carefully.

"Well, yes. Okay. But I didn't want to admit it, even to myself. It's hard enough having this scar, and having everyone convinced I'm going to save the world - I really wanted to be normal, at least in this. But I'm sorry. As for the other - well, I bet you've seen Ginny in her underwear once or twice."

"What the hell has that got to do with anything?" demanded Ron.

"Well, you like girls. Ginny's a girl. But obviously you don't think of her like that, because she's your sister."

"Harry!" Ron looked even more outraged than he had before, if that were possible. Harry swallowed.

"I'm just saying - you love her, but you don't ever think of her like that, even if you see her in her underwear. Well, it's like that. I love you to bits, Ron, but I don't look at you like that. You're my best mate, but I don't fancy you." Harry felt like he was walking a tightrope over shark-infested waters. He glanced at Ron and then waited.

"Huh." Ron stayed quiet for a little while, chewing over this. "Well, good. I mean, I definitely don't want you to fancy me, because – well, urgh. But - well. Am I not good enough to fancy, then?"

"No! No, Ron, it's not like that. For what it's worth, I'm absolutely positive that Hermione fancies you something rotten. But I just think of you as, well. As a brother." Ron bit his lip.

"Do you really, honestly think she fancies me?" he asked doubtfully. Harry ventured an encouraging smile. He still felt horribly awkward and he wasn't at all certain whether that feeling would ever change. Ron wasn't looking at him properly and it hurt.

"I really, totally, honestly do think so. I'd put money on it. I'd bet my broom on it. She fancies you, Ron."

"Oh. Oh, well that's - that's nice." Ron's cheeks were flaming. He stared at the lake. In the distance, concentric ripples hinted at the squid's whereabouts.

"Yes. You need to ask her out, Ron."

"Hmm," said Ron noncommittally. There was another pause. Ron couldn't meet his eyes. "Draco Malfoy?" Ron said at last, in an unhappy voice. "But, Harry - he's awful. He's really, really awful. He's a horrible person. I don't understand. Are you sure there isn't a spell? Because I think you should check it out, just to be sure. It seems so - I just don't understand it at all."

Harry drew a deep breath.

"Okay. Well, I know that you've never liked each other. And I know he's a git a lot of the time, but there's more to him than that. Honestly. I've got to know him better. I mean, I think I always kind of - ah - wanted him." Ron flinched, and Harry pretended not to notice. "But I didn't like him. But I'm getting to know him better, or else maybe he's just changed a lot. He's all right, Ron. Deep down, he's really all right. I mean, he's a sarcastic sod, and he lashes out a lot, but he's actually kind of - well. Decent. He just hides it really, really well."

"Unbelievably well," said Ron with feeling. Harry sighed. Draco and Ron were never, ever going to like each other.

"Unbelievably well," Harry agreed. There was another pause. "But I've never felt like this about anyone, not even Cho. When I see him with Justin I just want to kill something, because he's supposed to be with me. It should be me." He raked a hand through his hair. His chest felt tight. "I can't stand it, Ron. I just - shit. I want him so much."

"Oh."

They both stared at the lake.


	30. Chapter 30

The Owlery was comfortingly quiet at this time of the day, and Harry took a moment to savour the contrast with the Gryffindor Common Room. Aunt Petunia had always been very vocal about her views on the subject of Hedwig, and had left Harry in no doubt about how sanitary she considered owls to be. There was, undeniably, a distinctive smell clinging to the shadowy building despite all the House Elves' very best efforts, but Harry rather liked it. It was more evocative of home than Privet Drive's antiseptic blend of soap and pot pourrie air freshener had ever been.

In all his long and miserable summers with the Dursleys, Harry had never once expected to find himself feeling lonely at Hogwarts, let alone to be reduced to seeking out Hedwig's company for comfort rather than hanging out with Hermione or Ron. In the wake of his talk with Ron, however, the atmosphere in the dormitory had been painfully strained. Hermione clearly realised that something had happened, but Ron just as clearly hadn't spilled the beans to her just yet. Harry knew that he ought to have The Talk with Hermione now, but the prospect of having her start looking at him the same way that Ron did made him feel sick. Being around the two of them made Harry's heart hurt. Moreover, the rest of Gryffindor had been looking at him askance ever since his inexplicable attack upon Dean and Seamus. Right now Gryffindor wasn't feeling very much like home.

Overhead, scores of birds dozed on their perches in a sleepy parliament interspersed with the occasional leathery shape of a messenger bat. Underfoot, pellets packed with delicate bones crumbled with the tiniest of sighs as Harry stepped into the centre of the room. After a moment there was a susurration of ruffling pinions and then Harry felt the familiar weight of Hedwig alighting on his shoulder. She flexed her claws lightly and leaned in to him, and Harry felt some of the tension seep away at the improbable comfort of having a bird of prey rub her sharp beak against his forehead.

"Hello, girl," he whispered, scratching the spot between her shoulder blades. She stretched one white wing deliriously to its full extent and leaned right in to the gesture with such fervour that Harry grinned despite himself. "Sorry, Hedwig – have I been neglecting you, love? We can't have that, now, can we?"

"What a touching scene!" Harry jumped, and then winced as Hedwig dug her claws in for balance. He knew who he was going to see before he turned, and he could feel himself reddening.

"Are you following me?" Harry snapped, turning around so quickly that Hedwig cried out in protest and arched her wings for balance. As expected, Justin Finch Fletchley stood framed in the doorway like some Muggle model posing for a photo shoot. He was almost in silhouette, his features barely hinted at – nothing but the faintest glitter indicating where his eyes and his parted lips were to be found. Justin's laugh was all too familiar by now.

"Don't flatter yourself, Harry," he said, holding aloft a folded piece of vellum. "Some of us write to our families, you know."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling spectacularly stupid. Justin's Eagle Owl swooped down from her roost and perched on one of the low level posts, allowing Justin to stroke the top of her head before he began fastening the letter around one of her ankles.

"Mama and Dad can't help worrying about me – although we both know that they're in more danger than I am. It's no fun being a Muggle right now. I try to write as often as possible."

"Oh," said Harry again. "Right. Sorry." So much for sanctuary here, then, he thought crossly. Still, at least we're not talking handbags at dawn; the last thing I need right now is to get into a duel over Draco Malfoy. Although Draco would probably love the idea of having people fighting over him, the arrogant little bugger. "Sorry, girl. Got to go," he murmured. Hedwig made a small sound of protest once again. "I'll be back soon, I promise. With bacon." Hedwig crooned with delight at the prospect. He smiled as she launched herself back up towards her favourite perch near the ceiling. "See you later, Justin," Harry said, trying to sound as normal as possible.

"What's the hurry? I'll walk back with you."

"No, really, you're busy," said Harry. In flat contradiction, the Eagle Owl darted through the door and swept up into the quiet blue sky.

"See? Finished." Justin was beside him a moment later. Harry ventured a sidelong glance at him, and was disquieted to see that familiar knowing expression on Justin's face.

"Oh. Good," he said, helplessly. The two of them walked back towards the main building in silence. Justin Finch Fletchley, Harry reflected bitterly, was entirely too attractive for his own good. No wonder Draco preferred his company to Harry's. It occurred to him to wonder whether Justin had always known Harry preferred boys; he had absolutely no doubt that Justin knew how Harry felt about Draco. Maybe if Harry hadn't been The Boy Who Lived he would have already found himself drunkenly getting off with Justin one of these evenings. If things had been different.

After a very uncomfortable few minutes Harry ventured: "So, how are your family?"

Justin looked slightly off balance. "Worried," he said, after a moment. There was an odd note in his voice. "Jemima's too young to have any idea of how much danger everyone's in right now, but Mama and Dad know, and Miles understands the situation. They get The Prophet delivered – which is an interesting experience for a Muggle. Have you seen The Prophet's cartoon strip?"

Harry blinked, and his brow furrowed as he tried to follow this tangent. "'Witches to Watch Out For'?"

"No – actually, I quite like that one. But I was thinking of '101 Uses for a Muggle'."

Harry blanched. "Oh. Right." The cartoon made him laugh because of the painful ignorance of Muggle reality that it betrayed. He hadn't given the matter all that much thought, although he knew it wasn't kind. Despite having grown up as a Muggle, Harry often found himself agreeing with the Wizarding world in its assessment of them. The Dursleys were not exactly the best advertisement for non-magical beings.

"I know it's a joke, but – that's what most pureblood wizards think of Muggles, Harry. They think they're really like that. Like trained chimpanzees, or something. That they're a joke."

"I suppose – yes. Yes, I suppose they do." Harry couldn't help thinking about Dudley.

A copse of trees screened them from the main buildings of Hogwarts for a moment, and Harry was entirely startled to find himself suddenly pulled into their midst.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, as Justin unceremoniously shoved him up against the trunk of a sturdy oak. From the expression on Justin's face, Harry had the feeling he was about to get punched, and he had a fairly good idea why. He wasn't scared – he was, after all, taller and broader than Justin, and undoubtedly more powerful – but he was thoroughly uncomfortable about the situation. Handbags at dawn after all, then.

"You can't have him," said Justin, crisply. His face was very close to Harry's, and he was, distractingly, even better looking from this distance. "I don't feel like sharing, and I got here first. So you can't have him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said, unconvincingly. The bark was scratchy against the nape of his neck. He could knock Justin down with one well-judged punch, and they both knew it; and if he used his wand, it would be even quicker. But they also both knew that to some extent he had this coming. Justin leaned closer, his fingers still bunched in the fabric of Harry's collar and his legs pressing warmly into Harry's thighs.

"Sure you do. Sorry, Harry, but he's mine. Until I get bored – and right now I'm not at all bored." His smile broadened, and Harry reddened at the expression on Justin's face. "Not. At. All. So I think you ought to keep your nose out of Draco's business. After all," he added, mockingly, "Everyone knows you're not that kind of boy. You like girls, isn't that right?"

"I – yes, of course," Harry stammered, painfully aware that Justin didn't believe him for a moment. "I – I mean – what are you – what?"

Justin leaned closer still, until he was effectively embracing Harry, and he pressed his lips up against Harry's right ear. "Bullshit," he whispered.

"Hey!" Justin's hand had suddenly made itself entirely too at home between Harry's thighs. "What the hell?" protested Harry, trying to will his body not to react in the way it was reacting. "That's – oh, damn. I – look, don't do that, damn it," he said, unconvincingly. "I like girls. Really."

"Yeah. Right. And this isn't a hard on, it's your wand. Sure it is." And then Justin was kissing him very thoroughly, and Harry, who was only human, and, after all, seventeen years old, and not nearly as heterosexual as was popularly believed, kissed him right back.

Gay, thought Harry, gasping as Justin's hand slid through layers of clothing and found his warm skin. Dear merciful Merlin, yes. Definitely gay.

"So we understand each other, then?" asked Justin, some minutes later, watching Harry's face avidly. Harry's short nails dug into the bark behind him and his back arched. He had no secrets left. If Justin stopped touching him, he thought he would probably die then and there.

"Yes," he said, fervently. "Yes. Don't stop. Please."

"Leave Draco alone," said Justin. "Promise me."

"I – I don't – oh, God! God! Yes!" Harry said, with more sincerity than coherence, and he came in Justin's hand.

"Good grief. No stamina at all," Justin sounded surprised and thoroughly unimpressed. Harry sagged back against the tree, panting hard.

"Bloody hell," he gasped. "I – you – bloody hell."

"Remember, you promised," Justin said silkily, leaning close again and pressing an incongruously chaste kiss onto Harry's forehead. He wiped his hand on the bark. "You'll leave Draco alone."

Harry watched him walk away and found himself hating Justin Finch-Fletchley wholeheartedly.

Returning to the Gryffindor Common Room at this point was out of the question. There was absolutely no way that Harry could face Ron or Hermione; he wasn't entirely sure he could face himself. Until this moment Harry had never realised that it was possible to feel simultaneously very, very smug and very, very guilty. He really wanted to talk to someone about it, either to gloat or to apologise – but Ron would be horrified, Hermione didn't even know he was gay, and the only other person he could think of was Draco, and that was absolutely not on the cards in any circumstances.

Harry slid down the trunk of the tree and sat in the grass, wondering where to go. A flutter of white at his side told Harry that Hedwig was there. He pulled his knees up in front of his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

"Hey, girl," he said. His voice was wobbly. "Any advice to offer?" She cocked her head and hooted gently. Harry grinned, and reached out one hand to scratch her neck. "Nope. Didn't think so." He stared out over the grass for a while. "Mind you, it's not like I should be feeling guilty, really. But – ah, shit. Why do I feel like this? Do owls have complicated sex lives, Hedwig?" Hedwig hopped away and gave him a scandalised look. "None of my business," Harry agreed apologetically. "Right. Sorry."

* * *

 

Some time later, and feeling vaguely like he owed Draco an apology of some sort, Harry decided to do a little more detective work about Peeves. First he elected to quiz Nearly Headless Nick, and to this end he searched Gryffindor quite thoroughly. Oddly, though, the ghost was nowhere to be found. At last, feeling more than a little irritable, Harry decided to see whether Moaning Myrtle could shed any light on the matter.

He knocked cautiously on the door to the girls' lavatory in which she lived. Granted people mostly avoided it, but it was just possible that some female student could have been caught short and decided to put up with the wailing and moaning. Happily, however, nobody answered. After a moment Harry stepped inside.

"Myrtle?" he called, guiltily conscious that he hadn't visited her for more than a year. "Myrtle? It's me, Harry. Harry Potter. I was wondering whether you might be able to help me with something? Please?"

A disheartening silence answered him. Harry waited hopefully for several long minutes, and then at last his shoulders sagged and he turned to go. He was almost at the threshold when he heard a whooshing sound and turned to see the familiar, lugubrious face of Moaning Myrtle. She looked smaller than Harry remembered.

"You stopped visiting," she pointed out. Harry looked apologetic.

"I did. I'm sorry, Myrtle. It's been so hectic, between one thing and another. I didn't think you'd mind."

"Nobody ever visits me," the ghost announced, pitifully. Fat and insubstantial teardrops rolled slowly down her translucent cheeks. "Nobody cares about old Myrtle. Stupid, boring Myrtle. Once you'd solved the puzzle of the basilisk you hardly ever came by, Harry Potter, and I pined and pined. But I still see you, sometimes. When you don't know I'm there. You've grown very big." Harry swallowed. He knew that Myrtle had occasionally spied upon him whilst he was bathing. There was something very creepy about ghosts, Harry decided, rather redundantly; not creepy in a Horror Movie way, though. Creepy in a privacy-invading way. He wondered, abruptly, whether this was how Draco felt. Draco was quite possibly imagining the whole business about being spied upon, but there was no doubting that he was sincerely freaked out by the concept, and Harry couldn't entirely blame him. "You're very dishy, Harry," said Myrtle, scrubbing her runny nose with the back of her hand. Harry swallowed. "Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked. Harry swallowed again. Myrtle took off her glasses and fluttered her clumpy eyelashes at him.

"You're -- ah -- you're like no other girl I've ever seen, Myrtle," he said truthfully. "You're very -- um -- striking. Very special. Yes. But you're a bit young for me, you know."

Myrtle laughed at that. "I'm far older than you are, silly boy." She swooped closer. Harry could clearly see the sink behind her, but he focussed on her translucent face instead. "Would you kiss me, Harry? If you could? If I had warm skin again? If I had a pulse and a mouth again? Would you?"

"No!" said Harry, aghast. He backed away until he bumped into the door, and started fumbling for the handle. Myrtle floated closer. She did not, to his relief, go into hysterics at this tactless response.

"Are you sure?" she asked. She sounded wistful. "I know a lot about kissing now. And other things. I've watched people. I bet I'd be a good kisser, Harry. I never had the chance when I was alive."

"I -- look, don't take this the wrong way, Myrtle -- I mean, you're a very nice girl -- uh -- ghost -- uh -- person -- well, you're very nice. But I don't think of you like that. I think of you as a -- as a friend."

"But I could be more than a friend, Harry," Myrtle said in a wheedling tone.

"No! Please -- really, please do stop this. You're making me uncomfortable. Look, Myrtle, even if you are technically older than me, you were younger than me when you died and that's how you look. And -- and, besides, the fact of the matter is that I prefer boys. I just -- I'm gay. That's me. Gay. I'm queer. Nothing personal, you understand. I just don't fancy girls very much. Honestly."

Now why, Harry asked himself, startled, had he admitted to that so readily? He watched the expression of resignation sweep over Myrtle's face and decided that it had been a worthwhile confession after all.

"Oh," Myrtle said sadly, derailing his train of thought. "I was afraid of that."

"What?" Harry couldn't suppress the outrage in his voice.

"Yes, I thought you might be. But I'd hoped -- oh well. Bother."

"Sorry, and all that," said Harry, when he had stopped gaping like an infuriated (but thoroughly butch) goldfish. "But it would never have worked, you know. I mean, even if I did like girls -- you're a ghost, I'm alive. I'm sure there must be some very nice boy ghosts out there somewhere," he added encouragingly. "If you're lonely."

"But that wouldn't matter!" exclaimed Myrtle, suddenly sounding hopeful. "Not when I come back to life."

Harry wouldn't have taken this last comment seriously for a moment if Myrtle hadn't clapped her hands over her mouth and gazed at him with eyes like saucers the moment she'd said it. He stared back.

"Come back to life?" Harry repeated, incredulously. "But that's impossible, Myrtle. You're -- look, I'm sorry, but you're dead."

"So was You-know-who," she replied, tartly. "But it didn't stop him. There are ways. It can be done. We know that now."

"Oh my God," Harry said. He stared. A number of things clicked suddenly into place. "Oh. My. God. Myrtle, what's happening in Hogwarts? What are you up to? You know something, don't you? About Peeves? About Draco?" They looked at each other for a long moment and then Harry gasped. "You're working for Voldemort!"

She flinched at the name, and huge tears welled up in her translucent eyes. "No! No, I don't know anything. Only -- only that the Baron has a plan, and that we'll all be able to live again if we do what he says."

"You'll be able to -- you'll – Myrtle, what's all this about? What's it got to do with Snape? Peeves? With the Baron?"

She squirmed, and swooped, and wrung her hands. "Nothing!" she wailed. "Nothing! I don't know!"

"Nonsense."

"Harry! Oh please, please -- you'll get me into terrible trouble. You don't know what he's like. Do you know why they call him the Bloody Baron? Do you know the kinds of things he did when he was alive? Terrible, terrible things, Harry. Truly terrible."

"And he thinks he's found a way to come back to life?"

"Yes," admitted Myrtle in a whisper. Her eyes were enormous. Harry stepped closer, and she shrank away. She looked frightened by his expression.

"Myrtle, you are going to tell me everything, and you're going to tell me it right now." His voice had deepened, and it held the absolute promise of violence.

"Why, Harry, you wouldn't hurt me, would you? You couldn't, could you?"

His fingers tightened around the handle of his wand, thinking about the scared look on Draco's face. "Myrtle," he said clearly, "I can and I shall, believe me, if you don't tell me everything you know, immediately."

"I – I mean – but –" she began. Harry drew his wand. She swallowed. "We want to live," Myrtle said in a small voice. "That's not such a bad thing, is it? Really? We just want to live. The Baron says that You-Know-Who can make it happen. He used to be one of us, but now he breathes and walks and eats and lives again."

"Myrtle, he was never one of you. He was never a proper ghost."

"He was dead, and now he's alive," insisted Myrtle, sullenly. "The Baron says so. But we have to do him a favour first, before he does any favours for us." Harry looked at her narrowly. "Nothing terrible! Don't look at me like that Harry – we wouldn't do anything to hurt you. Truly. We've just been telling him things. Things that we see, or hear. That's all. Where's the harm in that?"

"You've been spying on Dumbledore." Harry knew he was gaping, but he couldn't help it. Myrtle really did seem to think that he should understand her decision now that she'd explained. "For Voldemort," he clarified, needlessly. She nodded. "How can you possibly think that's all right, Myrtle? Anything you've given to him, he can use against us. Anything you've told him, he can use to hurt people."

"Not people like us – like you and me." Harry stared. "Wizards," said Myrtle, earnestly, by way of explanation. "He won't hurt us. Not really – he only wants us to stay apart from Muggles, that's all. He doesn't really want to kill all the Muggles. Maybe some of them, but not all of them. He just thinks that they should be kept in smaller areas, maybe doing something useful – that we deserve more of the world for us. And after all, they're only Muggles." Harry gasped. "He's really not so bad, Harry. I knew him when he was alive, you know."

"Myrtle, he was responsible for your death. How on earth can you overlook that? Tom Riddle killed you in the first place!"

"It wasn't on purpose, Harry," said Myrtle. She sounded injured. Harry drew a shaky breath, but said nothing. "He didn't mean it personally. It was just – just unfortunate. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now he wants to make it up to me." She gave him a watery wink. "See, Harry? Everything can be all right again. And all that we've been doing is watching all of you, that's all, same as usual. Just keeping an eye on things."

"What else, Myrtle? What about Peeves? What about Draco? What has this got to do with Snape?"

"Don't be so mean, Harry!" exclaimed Myrtle miserably. "We haven't done anything terrible, we really haven't. But we don't want Draco Malfoy back at Hogwarts, do we? You-Know-Who wanted him back, and we didn't want him here. Peeves has been – encouraging him to leave. That's all. Won't it be nicer when he's gone?"

Harry started to pace. He was shaking. "Peeves was responsible for the accidents? Peeves stole Draco's wand? And damaged the Potions Room? So that Draco would get kicked out?" Myrtle nodded. "I really should have guessed this before, shouldn't I? But Peeves doesn't make plans, he just acts on impulse. Nobody tells him what to do, so I thought – but The Baron can tell him what to do. I'm an idiot. So he stole the wand and gave it to Snape? I knew it was Snape."

"No," said Myrtle, shaking her head gravely. "No – no, I don't think so. That doesn't sound right. Severus Snape doesn't know about The Plan."

Harry froze. "It isn't Snape? Snape isn't – what? Then who?"

Myrtle hid her face in her hands. "You're getting me in so much trouble, Harry. There's nobody else I'd tell all this. Nobody. It's only because we're friends, Harry. We are friends, aren't we?"

"Of course we are, Myrtle," said Harry, as calmly as he could. "But if you keep a single thing from me, I promise I shall banish you beyond the veil for all eternity." She gasped. "I know how to do it. Now tell me – who else has been betraying us?"

"There's a – a boy," Myrtle stammered. "In Hufflepuff. He's been sending the information out to You-Know-Who for us. He used the wand to summon a troll. He's trying to get rid of that nasty Slytherin."

Harry stared. And then he started to run.


	31. Chapter 31

ustin was not in Hufflepuff. He was not in Slytherin. He was not in the library. Harry bumped into Ron and Hermione as he ran back out of the library, and he must have looked dreadful to judge from their faces. Ron's frigid expression melted away as soon as he'd taken in Harry's wild look.

"Bloody Hell, Harry! What's happened?"

Harry grabbed Ron's shoulder and stared at him. "I know how they're doing it," he declared. Ron looked blank. "I know how and what and why. It's the ghosts, Ron – and Justin's working with them. Justin's setting Draco up. He's working for Voldemort."

"He's what?" It was Hermione who spoke, but Ron's eyes were fixed on Harry's. "Harry, what on earth are you talking about?"

"Hermione, I've got proof. The ghosts have been working against us the whole time – the ghosts are the reason Voldemort keeps being one jump ahead of Dumbledore. The ghosts and Justin Finch-Fletchley. Not Snape at all. Justin."

Hermione stood quite still for a moment, her arms full of books and her expression serious. "Really?"

"Really. We need to find him, now, before he does any more harm." Harry was shaking. "Before he gets Draco killed."

Hermione's eyes widened. She glanced over at Ron. "I know that Neville's practicing his Quidditch moves with Draco right now – the Ravenclaws have just finished their practice, and Neville tends to use the pitch straight after. Justin could be there?"

"Thanks." Harry turned to run, but Hermione grabbed his arm. He stared at her uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"We need to tell Dumbledore that – oh, damn. He's in London. Professor McGonagall, then. We should tell someone powerful, someone in charge. People get hurt when we try to sort these things out on our own." Harry flinched, thinking about Remus and the twins. "Sorry, Harry, but you know it's true. Look, you go to the Quidditch Pitch and we'll go and find McGonagall."

"I – okay. Right. Thanks."

"And, Harry?" He glanced back over his shoulder at his friends. Hermione looked worried. "You be careful, okay?"

He spared her a tight-lipped grin. "Hey, you're talking to Harry Potter, the boy Voldemort can't kill. I'm not scared of Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hermione. But Justin should be scared stiff of me."

 

* * *

 

He arrived at the Quidditch pitch a few moments later, windswept and murderous. Reassuringly, overhead Neville and Draco were swooping back and forth through the afternoon sky; Harry was impressed to see that Neville's flying style was looking less and less like that of a demented bat.

Justin Finch-Fletchley was making no effort to hide himself. He was sitting with his feet up on a seat back, picking at a bag of pumpkin popcorn. Harry propped his Tempest 3310 against an empty chair, tightened his grip on his wand, fixed a fake smile onto his face and headed over to join Justin.

"Why, if it isn't the wholly heterosexual Mr Potter," said Justin, with a predatory smile. He leaned closer and dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. "You know, I could have sworn that you promised to leave Draco alone." Harry's eyes narrowed. Justin's hand slid casually towards his own pocket. "Or at least, it was someone who looked just like you. Perhaps you have an evil twin? An evil gay twin?"

"Expeliarmus," said Harry firmly, and the wand which Justin had been in the process of easing stealthily out of his pocket shot away like an arrow. It embedded itself deep in one of the stands on the other side of the stadium.

Justin watched its flight and turned to Harry, his expression all puzzled innocence. "Is there some kind of problem, Harry?"

"I know," Harry said. He was itching to hit Justin. "I know, you duplicitous bastard."

Justin frowned. "You know?" He stretched languidly and glanced across at his distant wand with a wistful expression. "What on earth do you think you know? I can't imagine what would provoke this level of aggressive machismo from our resident hero."

Harry hit him.

* * *

 

"Isn't that Harry?"

Neville's words were half lost on the wind, but Draco caught the name. He wheeled around and scanned the seats below them. Doll-sized in the distance he could see Harry Potter standing over Justin with his wand drawn. Justin was, for some reason, sprawling on the floor covered in popcorn.

"Wonderful," said Draco to himself, quietly. "What the hell are you up to now, Potter?"

The early afternoon sky was thick with clouds promising rain, but so far none had actually fallen. From this angle, Hogwarts looked much the same as it always had. It was almost possible to pretend, for a moment, that Slytherin could still field a full Quidditch team, and that Pansy and Crabbe and Goyle and all the old crowd were waiting below to congratulate him for a particularly well-executed double helix. Possible, at least, if one overlooked the ungainly presence of Neville Longbottom swooping past, laughing his socks off at himself after nearly falling off his broom again. Now this was not something that would ever have happened in the old days. Draco gave an involuntary grin, and reflected that not all change was for the worse.

"Yes!" Draco's head snapped up. Neville was flat on his broom, darting towards something with a single-minded intensity that could only mean – Draco squinted, and then executed a speedy volte face as his own sharp eyes confirmed it – that Neville has spotted the snitch. Damn and blast. Draco would be the first to admit that he was not a born teacher. His approach to constructive criticism was influenced by Marcus Flint's leadership technique, and it mostly consisted of encouraging phrases like "That's crap," and "Do it again, but better." (Strangely, Neville didn't seem to mind this too much. "You were always like that with everybody," he'd pointed out cheerfully. "Not just me. Everybody. Slytherins, Ravenclaws, purebloods, Muggleborn – everybody. Even Harry.") As far as Draco was concerned, the concept of holding back a little and letting Neville have a shot at getting the snitch was both alien and stupid. He had given Neville plenty of tips while they were on the ground, and Neville was certainly getting better at spotting the snitch, but Draco was damned if he'd sit back and let Neville catch the wretched thing. (Neville didn't seem at all upset by this attitude either; if anything, it tended to make him more bloody-minded. "It's a kind of compliment," he'd said more than once, shrugging. Draco had looked at him blankly.) Right now, however, Neville was hurtling towards the distant fleck of darting gold with absolute determination, and Draco experienced an unexpected moment of doubt.

"No. Sodding. Way," he muttered to himself, forcing an extra burst of speed out of his borrowed broom. The snitch was leading Neville back and forth and up and down and looping the loop like crazy, but Neville hung on grimly and he was gaining on it even as Draco gained on him. The snitch was barely a foot away from Neville's outstretched hand. Draco caught Neville's eye and grinned fiercely, and Neville grinned back. Neville didn't cut a very graceful figure, but what he lacked in technique he was making up for in sheer willpower.

"Sorry, old thing," muttered Draco through gritted teeth, his knuckles whitening around the handle of the broom and the cold wind stinging his eyes. "But I think you'll find that I'm the Seeker here." He had always loved the blissful freedom of flying. Neville's face crumpled with frustration as Draco overtook him, and Draco let out a whoop. The snitch was barely a hair's breadth away. "You're getting better, Neville," he yelled, banking steeply as the snitch shot away in a new direction and he pursued it joyously, "But you've got a long way to go before you can beat me."

He was laughing out loud, and the muscles in his right arm were straining almost painfully as his hand closed in triumph around the tiny, fluttering shape.

"I win!"

At that moment the world was dragged away from him with a sickeningly familiar lurch, and then Draco found himself abruptly alone in the dark.

 

* * *

 

"Shit!"

Harry was a little affronted to find that Justin was paying more attention to the distant figures of Draco and Neville than he was to Harry himself. Glancing up, he saw Neville was, against all expectations, on the brink of seizing the snitch. Harry looked at Justin, and was baffled by his reaction.

"What?" he demanded, suddenly suspicious. "What do you know?" Justin's face was white as he looked from Harry to the sky.

"Nothing," he said, too quickly.

"Rubbish." Harry's fingers flexed around his wand as he looked from Justin up to the two boys and back again. "Unless – unless you're trying to distract me."

"Yes," agreed Justin, hurriedly. "Now wasn't that stupid of me." He flicked a sticky ball of popcorn away from the sleeve of his robe. "Of course, Harry Potter wouldn't fall for an old trick like that."

Harry eyed him narrowly. Something was very wrong.

"Draco!" Neville's yell was so loud that they heard it down in the stands. Harry spun around and stared up into the sky to see Neville Longbottom hanging there alone among the clouds. Harry scanned the field with a sinking heart for the shape of a broom and its rider, but there was no evidence of a crash. Of Draco Malfoy there was no sign at all. Harry stared back up, baffled, and then a small sound behind him betrayed Justin's predictable attempt to escape.

Harry turned again, furious and helpless, and Justin, on his feet and several yards away from the seat he had been occupying so nonchalantly a scant few minutes before, froze at the look on Harry's face. For a moment Harry was more aware of the power in his veins and his heart than he had ever been in his life, and he knew that it would be utterly simple and utterly satisfying to strike Justin dead with a couple of tiny words. Justin evidently knew it too. He swallowed. Harry stared at him, wondering how Justin had ever seemed powerful in any way at all, and raised his wand.

"No – Harry, no. You don't want to – oh shit!"

Harry turned Justin into a frog at the same moment that someone else petrified him. The resulting amphibian landed on the ground with a thud and remained there, helplessly immobile. Harry looked up wildly to see Professor McGonnagal brandishing her wand.

"What happened?" he demanded, too loudly. Professor McGonagall's expression was grave.

"Unless I am very much mistaken, Mr Potter, I believe that Draco Malfoy is no longer at Hogwarts."

* * *

 

"Hello?"

Draco's voice cracked embarrassingly. He swallowed hard. He was alone in the dark with a borrowed broom and a treacherous snitch, and his wand was currently sitting in the changing room at Hogwarts. On the whole, Draco reflected shakily, this did not seem very promising. He took a hesitant step forward, reaching out blindly with the snitch-filled hand. Nothing. After two more steps his knuckles brushed against cold stone. A wall. Fine. Draco felt his way cautiously along until his tentative skin encountered something that felt entirely too much like a chain. It jingled. He traced the invisible links and gulped when his fingers found the chain culminate in a shape that was, unmistakably, a manacle. Not very promising at all.

"Hello?" It was almost a whisper. Draco didn't know whether being alone was worse than finding somebody. He leaned the broom against the stone and continued to feel his way along the wall in the vague hope that a door or a handy new wand would be forthcoming. Within a few seconds, and unsurprisingly, he found another chain. "Fabulous," he murmured, shakily. "Just fabulous."

A tiny sound behind him was the only warning Draco had before a slice of light cut through the darkness. He turned and saw the slice of light broadening quickly as a previously unsuspected door opened up. Draco took one look at the shape silhouetted in the doorway and moved from scared to utterly terrified within the space of half a second.

"Expelliarmus." The snitch flew out of Draco's unresisting grip. "Lumos." A fat ball of witchlight floated up to the ceiling. "Welcome home." Lucius Malfoy, wand in hand, stepped into the windowless room.

 

* * *

 

"This is a very serious matter." Dumbledore's expression was solemn as he stepped out of the fireplace into the packed room. "Very serious indeed." Professor McGonnagal, tight-lipped, nodded in agreement. A moment later Professor Snape emerged from the fireplace, brushing the soot and floo powder from his robes furiously. Everybody looked at the sealed jam jar and the frozen frog balanced on the table in the middle of Dumbledore's office. Fawkes, who had hopped down from his perch, took a tentative peck at the jar. Inside, Peeves writhed furiously and pounded on the glass.

"We've got to get him back," Harry said, desperately, twisting his wand around and around in his hands as Dumbledore took his seat. He caught the pained look on Ron's face and rounded on him. "Damn it, Ron! They'll kill him, you know they will." Harry felt physically sick. He should have taken Peeves to Dumbledore straight away, however stupid his suspicions seemed. Then none of this would have happened, because the headmaster would have put two and two together and found out about the ghosts' involvement in a trice, and Draco would be safe and sound right now. No good had ever come from keeping Dumbledore in the dark. Remus Lupin was dead because of Harry's reluctance to share his suspicions about Fudge until it was too late. He never, ever learned, Harry told himself miserably.

"Harry – are you really sure that Draco didn't vanish of his own free will?" asked Hermione, carefully. She flinched at the look on his face, and shrank back into her seat. Ron squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry, I'm not saying that he did, only – well, it's a possibility, isn't it?"

"No!" snapped Harry and Neville simultaneously. Fawkes, startled by the burst of sound, spread his wings to their full extent. "No, no, no," Harry continued. "It isn't. It really isn't."

"I have to agree," said Professor Dumbledore, stroking his beard absently. Harry shot him a grateful look. "The problem, Mr Potter, is knowing where Mr Malfoy has gone. If it is, as I suspect, back to Malfoy Manor, then the next problem is knowing how to follow him safely into the heart of Voldemort's territory." Harry squared his shoulders. "More serious still, however, is the discovery that our defences have been breached. First things first." The professor reached down and opened one of the drawers in his writing desk and withdrew a paper bag. Harry watched him curiously. Professor Dumbledore pulled a pear drop out of the bag and popped it into his mouth with an expression of supreme contentment. "That's better," he said in a muffled tone. "Now then, let's see." He uttered a couple of syllables, and abruptly Justin Finch Fletchley was restored to his usual shape. The small table gave a protesting creak and Justin scrambled off it. He looked very much less cocky than usual. Harry's wand hand started to tingle.

"Professor, I can explain," Justin began, backing away from Dumbledore. Unfortunately this meant he was moving closer towards Neville Longbottom. Harry took one look at Neville's thunderous expression and more than half expected Justin to be incinerated on the spot. He finally bumped into Neville, gave a small jump, and swung around to stare at him nervously. The look on Neville's face made him flinch. "Look, it's not – I mean, you know he's always been a racist, arrogant son of a – come on, you know it's true. He still thinks that way. Don't get me wrong – I mean, I did find myself almost liking him too, this time around. He's different now – weaker, I suppose, or something like that. Lost. It's almost -- sweet. Disarming. But you mustn't forget who he is. What he is." Justin sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Harry wished he'd hit him harder. "Just because he's so bloody good looking doesn't make him a good person all of a sudden. If anyone was ever due their comeuppance – and, really, he was pathetically easy to reel in – I mean, he was practically begging to be taken advantage of. Oh, damn it, Longbottom, don't look at me like that!" There was a sudden hitch in his breathing and Harry was gratified to see that he looked unhappy. Not anything like unhappy enough, in Harry's opinion, but unhappy nevertheless. "I couldn't help it – they didn't give me any choice! I thought that I'd have some control, but I didn't know the half of it." His voice broke slightly. "Do you know how easy it would be for them to hurt my sister? My dad? The Ministry doesn't give a damn about them!" He looked around the circle of faces, searching in vain for some spark of understanding, and gave a frustrated groan. "Voldemort's going to win anyway, damn it! There's nothing we can do to stop him." The headmaster smiled, but the expression didn't reach his eyes.

"That, Mr Finch-Fletchley, is a matter of opinion. Professor?" Professor Snape, radiating barely-contained wrath, stepped forwards. He was holding a small bottle labelled Veritaserum.


	32. Chapter 32

Less than half an hour had passed between the instant that Draco grabbed the snitch and vanished into thin air, and the moment that the ad-hoc rescue party arrived. Harry and Dobby materialised invisibly in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor in time to catch part of the touching reunion between Malfoy father and son. Harry experienced something a lot like the usual seasick lurch of disorientation brought about by portkey travel, and then here became there and there became here. House elf Apparation, Harry discovered, felt subtly different from human Apparation. Dobby, exhausted from the effort of 'carrying' Harry all this distance in one go, sagged against him.

" - played you," Lucius was saying. Harry swallowed when he saw Draco's father standing only inches away, and Lucius paused in the middle of his sentence -- alerted, perhaps, by the sudden displacement of air -- and stared with narrowed eyes in Harry's direction. Very slowly, and praying that the invisibility cloak would stay in place, and that Dobby would stay quiet, Harry moved his broom backwards until he was as far from Lucius as he could be. Lucius scowled, and glanced back at Draco. Harry followed his gaze, pulse beating wildly in his throat, and was shocked both by the pose and by how defeated Draco looked. Lucius had evidently not taken kindly to being betrayed; Draco's robes and half his Quidditch gear were puddled on the floor, leaving him naked from the waist up. His wrists were enclosed in very sturdy looking manacles set high on the wall. From the welts on his exposed skin, it appeared that Lucius had beaten him quite soundly, and probably with the snake-headed cane; Harry noticed belatedly that blood was matting Draco's pale hair and smudging his face. Draco was, in short, a mess. For a moment it was all Harry could do to keep from cursing Lucius Malfoy there and then. That would not be smart, he reminded himself with difficulty. Not smart at all. They needed to be sure they had an escape route, and attacking Lucius wasn't going to do a blind bit of good if the building was crawling with Death Eaters. Harry's knuckles whitened around the handle of his broom, and inside his chest he felt a furious pressure building up, but his wand stayed in his pocket.

"A Mudblood Hufflepuff," Lucius said, shaking his head. "I am embarrassed that any son of mine was so painfully easy to hoodwink. How he managed to insinuate himself into your company in the first place I cannot begin to imagine – but he told me he could do it, and it seems that he was right. You truly are a fool, Draco." His back was to Harry, and so Harry could only guess at his facial expression, but his voice was witheringly contemptuous. Draco flinched. He looked up at his father for the first time since Harry and the house elf had materialised inside the room, and Harry was taken aback by the utter bleakness of his expression. Draco seemed to have aged ten years.

"I must take after you, then," he said, unevenly, with a trace of the familiar vitriol. His voice was hoarse, and Harry wasn't sure that he wanted to know why.

Lucius stepped forward and hit his son. It was an open handed blow, by no means as damaging as a clenched fist would have been, but the sound was shockingly loud in the little room. Harry felt Dobby make an involuntary move and he grabbed at the elf, warningly. They were both shaking. Harry felt his body torn by strange pressures, the blood thrumming in his ears and his heart drumming in his chest, almost as if he were deep underwater. Sparks of magic fizzed under his skin and spat from his fingernails. He concentrated on mastering the sudden rush of power boiling up within him. This was not the moment, he told himself. God only knew what lay outside the door, and the most important thing – the only important thing -- was to get Draco out alive.

"Make no mistake, Draco," said Lucius. "You still breathe only because my lord wills it so. Because he has use for your blood -- for the blood of my son, shed by my hand -- he suffers you to live until midnight."

"You're too kind," Draco said, coughing hard. Lucius lifted his hand again, and Draco cringed reflexively.

"Yes," agreed Lucius, after a long moment. "I should not have given in to the sentimental impulse which had me favouring you over your mother. See how you repay my kindness." Harry watched, helplessly, as Lucius reached out with his wand hand.

"Crucio," he said, as calmly as one might ask for a glass of water, or remark upon the weather. Draco's back arched and his head smashed into the stone with a sickening sound. His grey eyes bulged horribly, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief while his whole body shuddered as if volts of electricity were passing through it. Harry, furious tears stinging his eyes, was on the very brink of blowing his cover and hurling Avada Kadavra at Lucius's stiff back when Lucius broke off and his son's body sagged limply from the manacles. There was a long pause, and the only sound in the room was Draco's wet and ragged breathing.

"I'm sorry," Draco said. The words seemed to choke him; his voice was thick with something -- tears or anger, Harry couldn't tell. He wasn't sure which was worse. It sounded as if something had broken somewhere inside. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He stopped himself with an effort of will and looked up, his eyes glassy and unfocussed. His head lolled a little on his neck, as if he had been drinking. Harry wanted to kill something. "I see you missed me, then," Draco added, unexpectedly. Lucius laughed.

"I did. More than you know." The truly disturbing thing was that Lucius sounded perfectly sincere, and disappointed. "You should not have left, Draco. It was stupidity, and cowardice. You were to have stood with me at my lord's side. Now your name will be expunged from the history books." Lucius shook his head. "You have no idea how much you have pained me. Still, no matter. You have shamed and disappointed me in every way, Draco. But your death, at least, will be of use." He turned on his heel, and it was only by dint of some very nifty flying that Harry managed to dart through the door in his wake.

* * *

 

Harry listened for the locking spell, and was reasonably sure that he caught it, although Lucius spoke very quietly when he touched his wand to the door. With any luck, though, Dobby should be able to unlock it from the outside; perhaps he could have done so from the inside, but there was no certainty of that. Harry grimaced invisibly, and glided after Lucius. Against his chest, Dobby was shivering. Harry's rage was almost tangible, but the most important thing, he told himself repeatedly, was getting Draco out safely. Harry had failed Remus, he had failed Padma and Parvati but he was damned if he was going to fail Draco. He felt like he was looking at the world through a heat haze, but he was keeping his anger under control until he knew what the situation here in the Manor was, and could be sure of how they would escape to safety.

He followed Lucius silently down a short corridor lined with doors very much like the one that imprisoned Draco, and then up a short staircase which opened onto a hallway on the ground floor. Malfoy Manor was every bit as grand as Harry had imagined. He thought about Lucius Malfoy, and wanted more than anything to burn the whole blasted place to the ground. The wood panelling was ornately carved, the picture frames were gilt and every single stick of furniture seemed to be older and more valuable than the Dursley's whole house. Indeed, older and more valuable than all the houses in Privet Drive put together. It looked like something out of one of the period dramas that Aunt Petunia loved to watch on TV -- although the trophies arrayed on the walls would have been a little out of place, admittedly. Harry counted two stags, four foxes, a unicorn, five or six merpeople and something that looked suspiciously like a wyvern. Disconcertingly, the heads -- like paintings and photographs in the Wizarding world -- moved; their eyes appeared to follow Lucius down the hallway for the simple and thoroughly disturbing reason that they were, in fact, following Lucius down the hallway. And none too affectionately at that. Harry glanced up at them, both intrigued and repulsed. It would not have surprised him in the least to find the stuffed head of a Muggle nestled in amongst them. Perhaps that was in one of the other rooms, he thought, absently.

Lucius pushed open a set of double doors and walked into a spacious salon in the centre of which stood a large mirror. Harry followed him, cautiously, but didn't venture all the way inside. The mirror gave him an odd flash of déjà vu, but this was no Mirror of Erised. Lucius walked smoothly up to it and laid one hand upon the frame.

"My lord?" he said. Harry shivered. Lucius's reflection wobbled like the image in a funhouse mirror, and slowly it resolved itself into a new shape.

"Malfoy? Is it done?" Harry's pulse raced at the sight of his old enemy. Please don't let him see me, thought Harry, suddenly afraid. At their last encounter, Voldemort had come entirely too close to killing him outright. Granted, Harry was invisible, and he was mostly hidden behind a door, but there was no knowing how or what Voldemort might see. Harry wished wholeheartedly that he were not alone in enemy territory. He could not afford to let anything go wrong, he repeated to himself, because nobody else was going to prioritise saving Draco.

"It is done," agreed Lucius Malfoy. There was, perhaps, the barest trace of sadness in his voice, but Harry could have been imagining it.

"Excellent. Come at sunset, and we shall add his strength to our own. You have done well, Malfoy."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Our servant will convert the looking glasses for us tonight. We attack Hogwarts at dawn."

It was all Harry could do to keep from swearing out loud. He glanced down at Dobby and saw that the house elf was every bit as staggered as he was himself. His hands tightened around the broom, and after a moment's hesitation he let it ease gently into the room, straining to see some clue as to Voldemort's whereabouts. This would probably be his only chance to spy upon them, and he had to make the most of it. He drifted closer, but nothing in the background of the image gave any clue to Voldemort's whereabouts at all.

In the mirror, Voldemort's ruined features contorted into a sudden frown, and Harry's heart missed a beat.

"Malfoy?" Voldemort's voice was suddenly sharp. "Are you alone?"

Oh shit, thought Harry. Dobby was shivering like a puppy that had just been dunked in ice water, and Harry knew just how he felt. He didn't dare move. Lucius cocked his head, listening for any give-away trace of sound, and peered around the room with his eyes narrowed. Harry held his breath and watched as light bounced off hair the exact shade of Draco's.

"I believe so," Lucius said at last, tentatively. "My lord? Do you sense something?"

"Perhaps not," said Voldemort, slowly. "But – be wary, Malfoy. Look to your defences."

"Yes, my lord," Lucius said. Harry heaved a silent sigh of relief and backed the broom slowly out of the door.

* * *

 

Draco was not expecting Lucius to return so soon. The sound of the door creaking open again sent a surge of pure terror through his body, and he stood bolt upright despite the pain. It was impossible to forget how long it had taken Narcissa to die. He stared at the doorway, his pulse racing.

There was nobody there.

Draco squinted into the dimness of the corridor, trying to distinguish his father's shape -- or, horror, that of Voldemort. Nothing. And then unseen fingers closed over his mouth, and he jumped.

"Don't panic," whispered a familiar voice. Draco stared into nothingness, his chest heaving. The voice had sounded, beyond all reason, like that of Harry Potter. Draco swallowed convulsively, but he did not yell or give way to hysterics until something sprang at his leg and wrapped around it. At that point only the invisible hand over his lips kept his startled screams from being heard upstairs.

"Master Draco!" exclaimed a high pitched voice, muffled by Draco's trouser leg. "We has come to save you, Master Draco!" He looked down at a small figure in lurid clothes embracing his lower limbs fervently.

"It's okay. Please don't yell. Will they know if I use magic, Draco?" demanded the other voice. "Will they be able to detect it, do you think?" The invisible hand pulled away from his mouth, cautiously.

"Probably," Draco admitted. Somebody swore colourfully. It did sound remarkably like the Boy Who Lived. "Potter? Is that really you?"

The reply came from the general area of Draco's knee, which was still being tightly embraced. "It is Harry Potter, Master Draco sir! And Dobby! Here to rescue you from the old Master -- before -- before, oh sir!"

"Potter?"

"It's me." Harry Potter's face slipped into view. It was higher up than Draco had anticipated, and for some reason he seemed to be looking over his shoulder at Draco, rather than facing him.

"Oh, thank fuck," said Draco. It was entirely possible, of course, that he had lost his marbles; indeed, it seemed considerably more likely than that his childhood rival should appear out of thin air to stage a dramatic rescue. But if it was a fantasy, it was a very comforting one.

"So they'll probably know if I dissolve the damn chains, then," said the disembodied head, scowling. "Bugger. Dobby? Any idea where the keys might be"

"Dobby could destroy the chains, like he unlocked the door," suggested the house elf. "Easy job for Dobby, and the old Master will not notice. Never notices house elf magic."

"You star. Do it," said Harry. A moment later the manacles melted away into nothing, and Draco promptly fell forwards into invisible arms and knees. After a few uncomfortable moments of elbows hitting rib cages and suchlike, Draco found himself being bundled onto a broomstick in front of a suddenly-visible Harry Potter and wrapped up in yards of some thin, gauzy fabric. "Invisibility cloak," Harry said, redundantly.

"You don't say?"

"Oh do shut up," said Harry, his breath warm against Draco's ear, but he sounded relieved. "Now, hold on tight."

There was a pause, whilst Draco's heart pounded wildly in his chest and he fully expected to see his father and Voldemort appear in a puff of sulphurous smoke to bar their way. Instead the much-burdened little broomstick bobbed out into the corridor after Dobby. They stopped outside the room.

"Right, Dobby -- you know what to do? "

"Yes, Harry Potter sir – but, sir, Dobby could take you both back to Hogwarts. Truly. Dobby is feeling very strong."

"Dobby, we both know that's not true. I saw what it took out of you carrying me all this way; you can't manage two. We'll be fine. Trust me." He leaned in a little closer and his breath tickled Draco's ear. "Draco, is there anything else that we need to tell Dumbledore? They're going to launch an attack on Hogwarts at dawn – we've got to warn them. Justin was their way in, as far as I know, working with the ghosts -- did they tell you anything else?" Harry's voice was shaking with the urgency.

Draco felt his heart sink. He wasn't being rescued for himself. He was incidental.

"No. Nothing. Only about Justin, but nothing -- relevant." He winced. It was probably Draco's imagination, but it felt like Harry pulled him closer at that.

"Okay. Go! Tell them!"

Dobby's homely little face contorted with worry. "Be careful, Harry Potter. Master Draco," he said, and then vanished

"Harry Potter!" the voice sliced through the air like the Gryffindor sword through butter, and in Harry's arms Draco went totally rigid. He knew, with a sinking sensation, exactly who he would see before his eyes confirmed it.

Lucius Malfoy stood at the top of the stairs, clasping his wand in a martial pose and gazing blindly down into the corridor, and Draco knew with an absolute certainty that it there was no such thing as happily ever after. They had nowhere left to run.


	33. Chapter 33

Harry squeezed him tightly and Draco winced in his arms. Lucius, Harry remembered belatedly, had left his son covered in bruises and in no shape to be wrapped in a comforting embrace. He stared up at the older Malfoy and felt anger kindle inside him once more.

"I know you're there, Potter. I heard your voice." Lucius stepped down towards them, his eyes darting back and forth hungrily and his long fingers flexing around the handle of his mahogany wand. "Now this is an unexpected development, but a very welcome one. Your stupidity increases with age, boy. This is my territory. You cannot best me here." He took one step across the stone floor and smiled. Draco flinched, and Harry felt the anger in his chest burn hotter still. Taking care not to overbalance the broom, he reached into the pocket of his robe and after a moment he produced his wand and held it out before them both, invisible under the cloak. "My lord will be delighted when I hand him both of you," Lucius added, his eyes sweeping the corridor. "Perhaps you can watch Draco's punishment before my lord metes out your own." That was enough. Harry's anger consumed him. "Omnia video," whispered Lucius, his expression triumphant.

"Imperius," said Harry, at the very moment that Lucius's eyes met his, and he poured all the frustration of the last few days and the broiling anger of the last few minutes into concentrating his will. Harry might not have Hermione's range of spells or Dumbledore's masterlhy technique, but what he possessed in abundance, as Dumbledore had told him time and again, was raw power. Something twisted somewhere inside him, and at last all the barriers holding that power in check were burnt away, and Harry felt endless magic flooding through him.

Time seemed to slow, and Harry was suddenly acutely aware of every pore in Lucius's face, every chisel mark on the stones of the wall, every mote of dust stirring in the flickering torchlight. He was aware, as never before, of the movement of his own blood and breath, and he knew, without knowing how, where every house elf in the building was, and where the bones of every dead prisoner were buried. The world was a million million interlocking patterns, and suddenly Harry knew how to shift them subtly to change the way they worked. He stretched out, and felt the minds and hearts of the Muggles in the nearby towns, and in the cities beyond. He stretched further, and found Hogwarts; one swift flex of his thoughts and every mirror in the building shattered. Better safe than sorry, Harry told himself, and smiled. There would be no attack on Hogwarts this dawn or any other. He stretched his mind further still, beyond the bounds of this world and into the other place where Voldemort had built his lair, and he shattered all the mirrors there. In the void between worlds, Voldemort's scream of wrath rang out, and Harry knew he had been seen and known. Voldemort's mind brushed his, and the contact was like the skittering brush of cockroaches crawling over a sleeper's face. Harry was revolted, but not afraid.

Barely a second had passed since he felt himself transformed. He turned his attention to the man before him and felt his heart harden. Under the onslaught of Harry's will, Lucius Malfoy flinched, resisted, and was swept away at once. Harry felt him struggling, and experienced a rush of satisfaction that shook him in its intensity. Lucius deserved this, he told himself, crushing the man's will with his own and forcing him to his knees. Draco's father bowed his head, and the long white hair swept through the dust. Harry smiled coldly. Lucius had tortured Sirius, had tried to kill Harry more than once, had brutalised his own son and murdered his own wife; Lucius deserved anything Harry might wish to do to him. The power was intoxicating.

"Harry?" Draco's voice was barely more than a whisper, but it gave him pause. However much of a bastard his father was, Draco probably didn't need to witness another parent being tortured. Probably.

Harry followed that train of thought and realised that he had, even if only for a moment, actually considered using Crucio; two Unforgiveable Curses in the space of two minutes. He felt suddenly sick. It struck him, belatedly, that there were already too many similarities between himself and Tom Riddle.

"That isn't who I'm going to be, damn it," he said out loud, his voice shaking. He drew a deep breath. "Get up," he commanded, and Lucius Malfoy rose to his feet. Sheer hatred glittered impotently in his eyes. "Go into that room yourself, then lie down on the floor and stay there until I give you permission to get up again. Say nothing. Do nothing. Work no magic. This is my will." Lucius turned silently and walked into the chamber where his son had been imprisoned and lay down on the floor like a broken marionette.

With an enormous effort, Harry damped down the rush of magic in his veins and tried to hold it in check. It was like trying to rebuild a broken dam while the pent up waters surged through the wreckage. His heart was hammering madly against his ribcage, and he had absolutely no idea what he might be capable of doing next. He had to get this under control, and soon.

Harry and Draco hovered in the corridor for a long moment without saying anything, then Harry guided the broom towards the staircase. "Will there be other Death Eaters coming here soon, do you think?" he asked Draco, his voice uneven. Draco stirred against him.

"Possibly," he said. Harry didn't know quite what to make of his tone of voice. "Potter?" said Draco, as the broom bucked nervously down the corridor, in as undignified a fashion as it was possible to imagine.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you for not – I mean – thanks for -- just -- thanks." He drew a shuddering breath and closed his hand shakily over Harry's own. "On the faint off-chance that we survive this, I think I may owe you an apology for all the things I've ever said about stupid Gryffindor heroics." After a pause he added, "There is a time and a place for stupid Gryffindor heroics, and this may be it." He coughed again, and Harry's arm tightened around his waist.

"You're welcome. Wards?" Harry's voice was suddenly urgent as they neared the top of the staircase. He knew that he could find the answer himself if he just reached out very slightly with his mind, but he was not going to do it unless he absolutely had to. Draco shook his head.

"They're to keep people out, not in. If you can find an open win -- there!" Harry saw it at the same time, and seized the opportunity. The broom sped up and shot towards the narrow opening like an arrow released from a bow. Years of Quidditch practice sufficed to make both Harry and Draco automatically curl up as tightly as they could to fit through the small space. Pain shot through Draco, but he ignored it for the moment. There would be time to worry about the pain once they were outside.

They passed through the open window without incident and the cool night air whispering through the cloak and against their skin felt like a benediction.

"That was close," said Harry, shakily, thinking about how very near he had been to doing something from which there would have been no going back. Imperius was bad enough, he told himself. Crucio – now that was wholly unjustifiable. That wasn't about defence. That was about the intentional infliction of pain. Abuse of power, plain and simple; but it had felt so entirely tempting for a moment. He felt himself so far beyond what he had been that the rules were suddenly meaningless. Harry didn't know who he was becoming, and it terrified him. "Let's go home," he said, his voice cracking.

As if they had been waiting for those very words, scores of wyverns of every conceivable variety burst into existence around them; the sky was suddenly filled with the flurry of brightly coloured wings and the reek of brimstone. A moment later Harry swerved so violently that they both nearly fell off the broom just as flames licked through the air they had occupied a split second earlier.

"Fuck," said Draco. "Oh, fucking fucking fuck." He drew a deep breath. "I suppose it's possible that they've modified the wards since I left."

"You don't say," muttered Harry, angling the broom towards the grass in an attempt to avoid the beasts. "I don't think – they know – where – we -- are," he said, a moment later, as he swerved between two scaly bodies. The wyverns were flying around in a host of different directions and flaming wildly at random. Harry looked at the patterns with the newly wakened part of his mind and realised that he knew how to push with his magic and make the wyverns vanish into nothingness; but he had no idea how he knew this, or what the consequences would be. Voldemort would do it anyway, without a second thought. He shuddered, and put the idea aside. He would manage the situation in his own way.

His heart was hammering against Draco's back and he could feel Draco's pulse thrumming just as quickly against him. One of the blue wyverns darted too close and a lucky blast of icy breath froze the corner of the invisibility cloak; a moment later a lick of flame melted it again, and came perilously close to setting the broomstick on fire. It would be very easy to take the wyverns out of the world, Harry told himself again, and the temptation was terrible. He bit his lip hard and instead concentrated all his energy upon flying them out of immediate danger.

"Can't you turn them into mice?" asked Draco, unhelpfully. "If you're so bloody strong?"

"I'm – trying – not – to – use – magic," snarled Harry, ducking under a wingtip and diving out of the way of a set of claws sharper than steak knives.

"Oh. That's an interesting decision," said Draco, shakily. "But what with us being wizards, isn't that – ow – rather stupid?"

"Shut. Up," said Harry, and something in his voice made Draco obey. They swooped through the air for some minutes, missing gouts of poisonous smoke and tongues of flame by the skin of their teeth, and Harry thanked his stars for all those years of Quidditch practice. For the first time he wondered how the sport had been developed in the first place, and whether there had ever been battles fought on broomsticks. Professor Binns had probably told them at some point, he reflected.

Suddenly, and wholly unexpectedly, he felt a familiar wave of nausea; his consciousness reached out automatically and confirmed what he already knew. "Oh hell!" Harry snarled, clamping firmly down on the broiling mass of magic under his skin. He hadn't told it to do that, damn it. He felt like he had before he turned eleven, when strange things had happened on a regular basis to make the Dursleys look at him with dread, and he had had no control over his burgeoning power. He growled frustratedly and glanced down; just as he had known he would, Harry immediately saw the unmistakeable shapes of Dementors issuing from the house like blood from a wound. "Your father isn't doing this," he told Draco. "He's still downstairs. They weren't here before – must be some kind of automatic port key thing." He realised as soon as he said it that he already knew the answer, without having any idea of how, and he shivered. "Yes, that's it. This is one hell of a burglar alarm system he's set up."

"Don't use your patronus," Draco said, suddenly. The unmistakeable miasma of horror heralding the Dementors' presence drifted up from the grass and Harry was afraid that Draco was going to vomit or faint, or quite possibly do both at once. "For God's sake don't do it," he repeated, urgently. "That's what they want. The wyverns will be able to locate us if you do."

"I know that, you prat," muttered Harry from between gritted teeth. "I'm not a complete idiot, you know."

"Which part is missing?" Draco asked. He was, Harry could see, doing his damnedest to be his usual self.

"My patience," snapped Harry. "Shut the hell up, or I'll let you fall." As soon as the words left his mouth he felt a twinge of guilt, but it had been a very, very trying day, and the Dementors pulled all the most horrible memories and fears to the front of one's thoughts. Both of them had far too many unpleasant memories already. The broomstick angled up again, and Draco thankfully did shut the hell up while Harry guided them right in between the wyverns and up into the clouds.

The sounds of leathery wings and the wheeze of murderous breath faded as they left Malfoy Manor and its defences behind.

"Do you know where we're going?" asked Draco, after a few minutes of bemused silence.

"North," said Harry simply. "North will do, I think, for the moment. We can get our bearings later. God knows how soon Voldemort will realise that something's happened to your dad, and I've no idea how far they'll be able to detect magic use -- I don't dare cast a homing spell."

"Okay." Draco's bruised fingers flexed around the broomstick. The wind whipped the cloak around them but it stayed firmly closed, in accordance with the spell Harry cast before he left Hogwarts. He shivered, and Harry pulled him closer. It was an embarrassingly intimate position to be in; Draco was effectively sitting in Harry's lap. To make matters worse, in order to reach the broom handle Harry's arms were stretched taut around Draco and his wrists brushed Draco's inner thighs. It would have been rather less embarrassing if Draco could have simply sat on the broom behind Harry and held on to Harry's waist, but Harry was reasonably sure that Draco would have fallen off within minutes.

"You're all right," Harry said awkwardly. "It's all going to be all right. I promise." Even as the words left his mouth he thought about Lucius, and about Justin, and about Narcissa, and found that he couldn't shape any other easy words of comfort. He thought about how terrifyingly close he had come to torturing Draco's father only minutes before, and about the ease with which he had just invaded Voldemort's stronghold using nothing but his mind and his magic, and he wished with all his heart that someone could tell him that this was all going to be all right.

* * * 

It was approaching dusk when they finally landed. Had Harry been alone he would have happily continued flying through the night, but it was late, and Draco was hurt. And, moreover, they had no certain way of reaching their destination, so flying through the night wasn't likely to do them very much good. Planning hadn't played a big part in the whole rescue operation; Harry had pretty much concentrated on getting Draco out in one piece, and in that he had succeeded admirably. Getting both of them back to Hogwarts, however, promised to be somewhat trickier. He knew the school was in Scotland, so heading North initially was fair enough; but without the Hogwarts train to follow, finding the place was going to be a tricky business, unless he accessed the bottomless well of power that had suddenly opened up inside him. If he reached into that place, Harry knew that he would be able to find Hogwarts in an instant, but the power – or, more accurately, the person he might become if he used the power – scared him, and Harry was trying very hard not to touch it. They had, however, succeeded in putting a great many miles between them and Malfoy Manor, and that was the main thing.

Harry wished wholeheartedly that he'd paid more attention in Magical Theory classes. He was almost entirely sure that they were safe from detection so long as they remained under the cloak; not only was it invisible, but Fred and George had helped him make some adjustments to it so that it became -- at least judging from the Marauders' map -- unplottable too. The question was whether they would still be safe once they emerged from the cloak, and whether or not they would be able to work magic without immediately attracting the attention of Voldemort. There was a battle coming very soon, but Harry wasn't ready for it today. He wanted time to think, and to understand what was happening to him. He wanted to know how to defeat Voldemort without becoming Voldemort. Right now, the safest course was surely to try not to work any magic at all until they were back at Hogwarts.

Harry ached all over. He could only imagine how uncomfortable Draco must be. Riding a broomstick was all well and good in short bursts, but it was a most uncomfortable mode of transport for any longer duration. For the past hour Harry had been feeling a growing sense of awe at the endurance of the sportsmen and women who annually competed in the Grand Sweep . Draco, Harry was quite sure, would have fallen off the broom by now if Harry hadn't been holding him in place. He was uncharacteristically silent, but had not, so far as Harry could gather, passed out at any point.

They had spent the past hour or so flying over undulating hills and fields full of sheep, all of which was undoubtedly very pretty but none of which was any damned use to either of them. It would be dark very soon, and they were going to need shelter, so Harry flew closer to the motorway and made his way towards the nearest town with a vague idea of sneaking into a hotel or at least a garden shed or something.

He knew, with a certainty that he could not begin to explain, that he would be capable of Apparating them both straight back to Hogwarts with this new-found well of magic; but until he had no other options, Harry was going to do his damnedest to manage the situation in his own way.

The fact that this afforded him some time alone with Draco was entirely coincidental.

"So this is a Muggle city, then?" asked Draco after a while.

"More like a town," replied Harry, relieved that Draco was talking. "I'm not entirely sure where we are," he added apologetically. "I think it's somewhere in Yorkshire, though. Or possibly Lancashire. Or even Cumbria. Um. I was never very good at geography."

"There really are an awful lot of Muggles, aren't there?"

"There really are." Harry brought the broom down a little lower as they flew over suburbs full of small, neat houses that reminded him uncomfortably of Privet Drive. Beneath them the pattern of roofs and gardens and polished cars slid by whilst Harry squinted for a likely spot. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, but surely an opportunity had to present itself at some point.

"It's quite noisy," Draco offered, as they crossed over a busy bypass. "And it doesn't smell good. Maybe Voldemort had a point after all."

"Don't start," warned Harry, affectionately. He was coming to recognise when Draco was being provocative just for the sake of it. "Right now the only thing preventing you from being abandoned in the middle of Muggle Sheffield, or possibly Manchester, is me. Don't piss me off, Draco. I have it on good authority that it's grim up north."

"And you call yourself a rescuer," murmured Draco reprovingly.

"Damn straight I do. You needed rescuing, and I -- oh, just a -- that'll do nicely! Hang on, Draco, I'm taking us in." Harry banked steeply, tightening his weary arm around Draco's bare midriff and wrapping his legs around Draco's own. It would be just Harry's luck, he reflected as they swooped down on the Muggle house that had suddenly caught his eye, to rescue Draco Malfoy successfully and then let him fall off the damned broomstick at the last minute. He tried not to think anything pornographic, but the closeness of their embrace was hideously distracting. A moment later they were suspended over someone's drive whilst a Muggle family trailed suitcases out of their house and loaded up a battered VW Beetle.

" - be there by nine, Jack," the woman said fretfully as she stuffed a hold-all into the boot of the car. Harry cocked his head and listened.

"Carol, will you give it a rest? We've got loads of time. It's all fine."

"Have you got the money?"

"Yes."

"Have you got the passports?"

"Still yes. I haven't eaten them or sold them in the five minutes since you asked me last time."

"Sorry," she said, looking sheepish. Harry felt like cheering. If they played their cards right now, they had found a place to crash for the night.

"Do you know the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears?" he whispered to Draco. Draco shook his head. "Never mind. Hopefully they've got something more appetising than porridge in the fridge, anyway."

"Harry Potter, are you actually proposing that we break into a Muggle house?" Draco asked, sounding thoroughly amused. When he felt Harry nodding, he started to laugh, which made him cough and wince. "And you're on the side of all that is good and true. What ever is the world coming to?"

"Malfoy?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up now."

Harry had, he realised, well and truly embraced the whole concept of breaking and entering, because he really did have absolutely no qualms about trying to get into the house. An emergency was an emergency, and he knew that he could afford to reimburse them for whatever he and Draco might need to take. He pulled down close to the open door, waited his chance and flew through at the first opportunity. A minute later they watched the woman herd three small children out to the car. As Harry had more than half expected, the man came back to set the alarm; Harry bobbed invisibly at his shoulder, watching the numbers being tapped onto the keypad, and hoping that the sequence for 'on' was the same as the sequence for 'off'.

He waited until the rumble of the car's engine was lost in the distance before he pulled the cloak open and tapped the numbers onto the keypad a second time. The pad gave a satisfying little series of beeps and a green light flashed.

Harry dropped the broom to the floor and, trembling with exhaustion, they both dismounted.

* * *

 

Harry stood outside the bedroom door for a long moment, feeling thoroughly awkward. He had, after all, just spent several hours effectively wrapped around Draco Malfoy; he couldn't honestly claim that certain thoughts hadn't crossed his mind. There was nothing quite like risking life and limb to get the adrenaline flowing and send blood rushing enthusiastically to embarrassing parts of one's anatomy. He was, however, under no illusions about Draco's views on the subject. And even if Draco had fancied him -- which he very evidently did not-- the Slytherin had never taken kindly to being humiliated. Having his trust in Justin prove so thoroughly misplaced wasn't likely to put him in an amorous frame of mind, if Harry was any judge. But then Harry probably wasn't much of a judge, so -- all in all it was thoroughly complicated, and it made Harry's head hurt almost as much as the rest of him did.

Which reminded him why he was standing there in the first place. Harry squared his shoulders unconsciously, and knocked on the door.

"Draco? Are you decent?" When no reply was forthcoming he pushed the door open a crack and called again. "Malfoy?" He listened for any sound of life, and registered belatedly that the shower in the adjoining bathroom was running. Harry stepped into the bedchamber, cradling the first aid kit to his chest, and took in the chaos of scattered clothes. His mouth felt dry. After a moment he crossed to the bathroom door and knocked again. "Malfoy? I've got some antiseptic and things -- Muggle medicine to tide you over until we get to Madame Pomfrey. You should put something on that head wound." There was a little pause and he raised his voice, suddenly fearing the worst. "Are you okay in there?"

"I'm fine." Draco's voice was muffled, but firm enough. "I'm just -- shit -- just a little stiff." Harry's mind, which was demonstrating a regrettably one-track tendency where Draco Malfoy was concerned, presented him with a very vivid image to accompany this statement. He swallowed hard.

"Oh," he said unevenly. After a moment the shower stopped, and a few seconds later Draco stepped out of the bathroom with a towel round his hips and water still dappling his skin. Harry's sharp intake of breath was very audible in the quiet room. "You look like shit," he exclaimed, with more accuracy than tact, staring at the mass of welts and bruises that criss-crossed Draco's white skin. It all looked, unexpectedly, very much worse now that the grime of the dungeon had been cleared away and the bruising had had time to blossom. Harry felt a renewed surge of guilt for harbouring such thoroughly inappropriate thoughts about Draco at a time like this.

Draco was surprised into laughter. "By an amazing coincidence I feel like shit too. I wonder if it had anything to do with the combination of receiving a beating followed by our attempt at winning the long distance two-person broomstick riding record. Still, thanks for telling me I look like crap." He perched gingerly on the foot of the bed, wincing. "You know just what to say to boost a fellow's ego." He gave a tight smile.

"Sorry, I didn't mean -- I mean -- you look -- oh, give me a break, Malfoy. It's just -- he hurt you."

"Ah, the Gryffindor capacity for stating the obvious," Draco looked down at his torso and pulled a face, and then glanced over at the scattered garments without much enthusiasm. "Welcome to the Malfoy approach to child rearing. I think I'm probably going to go to sleep very soon, Potter. If Voldemort and his followers are tracking us down this very moment, I trust that they'll probably wake me up before they do anything important like murder, rape or disembowel us." There was an uncertain pause. "We aren't setting up any wards, are we?"

"No wards," agreed Harry reluctantly, joining Draco at the foot of the bed but carefully leaving plenty of space between them. "No way to tell who's listening for magic use."

"This whole thing wasn't very well planned, was it?"

"Gratitude just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?" said Harry, but he regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. He had meant to be teasing, but it sounded far too harsh. Besides, he was gradually coming to the very belated conclusion that Draco was quite often obnoxious as a defence mechanism -- although, having met Lucius, this really should have occurred to Harry several years ago. He shot Draco a sidelong glance and did not like the lost look on his face one little bit. "To be perfectly honest, it was sort of an unofficial rescue mission. Dumbledore and the others were talking and talking, and then I remembered about house elf magic, and about the way they Apparate – they can Apparate at Hogwarts, even though we can't. Their magic is different from our magic. And Dobby knows the Manor, and he thought it might be possible to sneak in without being noticed, but he wasn't sure he could do it with one person, let alone two. So, no, as a matter of fact we didn't do much planning. Still," he continued, briskly, "Since I went to all the trouble of saving your ungrateful arse, the least we can do is make sure you don't die before I get you back to Hogwarts. Do you think you can brave the perils of Muggle medicine?"

"Certainly," snapped Draco. Harry stifled a smile and opened the First Aid box, but then he stopped.

"You've still got blood in your hair," Harry observed, with some surprise.

Draco scowled. "Yes, well, I think I pulled a muscle, or something. It hurts trying to reach up that high. It was uncomfortable enough washing my body."

Harry tried once more, and without great success, to quash the mental images this produced.

"Look, you can't go around smelling like a butcher's shop. Come back into the bathroom and I'll wash your hair for you, and then we can sort out your various injuries."

Draco's eyes went wide again, and then narrowed in suspicion.

"What's in it for you?"

"Just humour me, will you? I'll be totally humiliated if I break you out of the heart of Malfoy Manor only to have you die of a head wound before we get back to Hogwarts."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's just a scratch."

"Yes -- well, if I didn't already think that I'd have taken you to a Muggle hospital. But I'll feel better when I can see it properly. Okay?"

"Well -- okay. Thanks."

Harry got to his feet and plucked the narrow-backed chair from its place next to the dressing table. He glanced back at Draco and was shocked afresh by how battered he looked. Harry plastered the most reassuring smile he could onto his face and reached out a hand. Draco looked at it blankly for a moment, and then clasped it in his own and let Harry haul him to his feet. Harry shivered at the contact of bare skin as Draco's warm fingers tangled in his, and for a moment it was impossible to forget how easy it would be to pluck away the towel and make Draco as naked as he had been when Ron and Harry burst in on him with Justin. What's more, Harry reflected, as Draco followed him meekly into the bathroom and allowed himself to be seated in front of the sink, even if Draco didn't actually fancy him, he sort of liked him. And Draco owed him now -- he had to be at least a little bit grateful. It wouldn't be difficult to convince him that he owed Harry some sort of show of thanks. Harry thought about the patterns that held the world together; in fact, he realised, all it would take was the tiniest nudge to make Draco want him. Genuinely want him. He could make Draco happy, and Draco could make him happy, and nobody would ever know that that wasn't how reality was supposed to be. It would be the easiest thing in the world to just -- but here Harry had the grace to feel ashamed, and more than a little scared.

His fingers trembled on the taps as he ran water into the sink. He was undeniably frustrated by the near-nakedness, and he was, after all, only seventeen years old, so it was perfectly normal for him to feel horny at the most inopportune moments. It was practically in the job description. But he really, really, really didn't want to be like Justin, or, God help him, like Voldemort. He recalled the rush of pleasure that he had felt when Lucius's will was squirming in his own, and blanched.

Besides, Harry told himself, Draco was bruised and exhausted, and anyone who was even slightly his friend should be concentrating on looking out for him, rather than taking advantage of the situation. Certainly Draco was wearing nothing but a towel, and certainly the sight of him leaning back against the sink with his eyes closed, his head back, his spine arched and the long line of his neck exposed was playing havoc with Harry's libido, but that was entirely beside the point.

He turned off the taps, filled the toothmug with warm water, and tipped it out, watching Draco's hair darken from white to golden brown. He glanced down again at Draco's face, and the sight of the shadows under Draco's eyes sent a twinge through him. Harry was knackered himself, there was no denying, and he ached as if he'd run a marathon, but Draco looked considerably worse. Disturbingly attractive with it, granted, but he still looked painfully fragile and weary, and for a moment Harry was overwhelmed by the conviction that he should have killed Lucius when he had the chance. Bastard. He could, in fact, still do it. Draco need never even know it was him.

An instant later Harry felt a renewed rush of guilt, and a surge of very real fear. This was not who he wanted to be.

"It was the ghosts," he said, conversationally, trying to take his mind away from the strange power zinging through his veins.

"Hmm?" Draco's eyelids flickered open for a moment, and Harry felt himself reddening as the tired grey eyes met his.

"They were spying on you -- all those times you felt like you were being watched? It's because you were." Draco looked singularly unsurprised, and after a moment his eyes slid closed once more. "The Bloody Baron, mostly, but I think they were all at it -- well, all except Professor Binns. He's not bothered about being brought back to life, because he still hasn't realised that he's dead. Ever since you arrived back at Hogwarts they've been following you around constantly. Even Nearly-Headless Nick was in on it -- not that he saw you very often, but still. They're in deep trouble with Dumbledore. I wouldn't be surprised if he banishes the lot of them."

"Good," said Draco. He didn't sound particularly bothered one way or another.

Mopping with a moist sponge at the cut on Draco's temple revealed it to be reassuringly small for something that had produced so much blood. Harry dabbed on a little antiseptic and then turned his attention once more to the business of washing Draco's hair; or, at least, running his fingers through it and watching the way it moved in the water. He rubbed gentle circles into Draco's scalp and was pleased by the way that some of the tension melted out of Draco's body at the touch. After a while Harry remembered, with a trace of embarrassment, that there really ought to be some shampoo involved in the proceedings. A quick investigation of the bathroom cabinet sufficed to produce a bottle of shampoo, but Draco's brows drew close together at the interruption.

"Don't stop," he said sleepily, without opening his eyes. Harry swallowed, unaccountably dry mouthed, and dropped his left hand gently back down to touch Draco again. The way that Draco moved into the touch reminded him, randomly, of Mrs Figg's cats when they wanted stroking. He half-expected Draco to start purring as he flipped open the lid with his thumb, still running fingers through Draco's hair with his left hand. The shampoo smelled of peaches, which was rather sweeter than Harry cared for, but couldn't be helped. He squirted some onto the crown of Draco's head and then slowly worked it into a lather. Draco made a small and involuntary sound of contentment, and Harry smiled. He was, he realised, enjoying the experience entirely too much, but Draco didn't seem to be objecting. In fact he seemed to be relaxing considerably as Harry massaged his scalp. Harry thought he could get used to this.

"It's all right," he murmured, half to himself. "Everything's going to be all right now. I promise."

"Mmm," agreed Draco vaguely. Harry emptied the sink and poured clean water through his fine fair hair until long after every last trace of the shampoo was gone.

"There we go," he said, at last. "Right as rain."

Draco opened his eyes drowsily and blinked at him. "That was nice," he said. His face looked oddly naked, and Harry wanted to kiss him. "That was -- that was very nice."

Harry turned his back on Draco hurriedly and rummaged around for a small towel. He was not going to take advantage of the situation, he reminded himself forcibly. And it would be taking advantage. So he would not do it. He turned around again with a towel in his hands and caught Draco studying him intently. Harry swallowed, and smiled, and stepped forward to dry Draco's hair.

* * *

 

Draco was fast asleep by the time that Harry himself had showered and brushed his teeth. He stepped out into the bedroom and raked a shaky hand through his own damp hair. There were teeth marks on the hand where he had recently bitten down to muffle his own cries in the shower, but he had a horrible feeling that despite his comparative silence Draco would still know, somehow, that he had managed to combine being clean and dirty rather effectively whilst thinking about Draco in chains. The sight of Draco sprawling so soundly asleep put his mind at rest. Steam billowed gently through the door behind him, but his glasses were impervious to condensation and so his view of Draco Malfoy remained unclouded. Harry bit his lip. Draco's features had finally relaxed in sleep and he looked his age again. Through the pale tumble of Draco's drying hair Harry could just glimpse the rectangular shape of the Muggle elastoplast, decorated with gaudy cartoon characters, that he had pressed into place himself. It looked thoroughly incongruous, and it made Harry smile involuntarily. Draco had been affronted to discover the plasters were for children, but he was entirely too tired to do anything about it.

The sensible thing, Harry knew, would be to sleep in one of the children's bedrooms. But Harry didn't want to. Besides, he knew that Draco had a propensity for nightmares, and he wanted to be there if Draco woke in the dark in this unfamiliar place. This time, he told himself as he padded towards the bed in his borrowed T shirt, he wasn't going to do anything stupid. Harry pulled back the covers and slid into bed beside Draco, and in so doing he discovered that Draco had decided against borrowing Muggle nightclothes after all, and was as naked as the day he was born. Harry swallowed hard again, and carefully left a large gap between them. He wasn't going to take advantage of the situation. He just wanted to be there when Draco woke up.


	34. Chapter 34

The first thing that Draco was conscious of was pain: a host of aches and twinges both sharp and dull were throbbing insistently and demanding his attention, and for a puzzled moment he wondered whether he'd fallen off his broom, or been attacked by another one of Hagrid's pets. He lay quite still, feeling thoroughly disoriented, and tried to place the odd blend of soap and artificial peaches tickling his nose. It made him smile without remembering precisely why. A sudden snore very close to his ear dragged him back into consciousness. Draco turned, wincing, and opened his eyes in the vague expectation of seeing Justin Finch-Fletchley, only to find himself face to face with The Boy Who Lived. He blinked, and recent events jostled with one another in his memory until he found himself reasonably sure of where and when he was, and why he wasn't likely to be sleeping with Justin again any time soon, if not why he seemed to have gained a Gryffindor bedfellow.

Harry Potter's sleeping face was unexpectedly vulnerable without the defence of its spectacles. He was so close that Draco could clearly see, even in the half-light, the faded scar on his temple, and the pattern where the pillow had left odd creases in Potter's cheek. A thin layer of stubble was beginning to shadow his jawline. Draco lay on his side and looked at Harry Potter for a considerable while, thinking about the way things had turned out, and about what this turn of events might mean. Harry was not, it had to be said, as attractive as Justin. But on the other hand, nor was he a treacherous, opportunistic bastard in Lucius's employ. Harry Potter was many things, Draco reflected, but treacherous wasn't one of them. Rash, certainly. Self righteous, by all means. Irritating, most definitely. He wasn't exactly the pattern card of honesty either, but Harry Potter had never, to Draco's knowledge, intentionally harmed another person. Accidentally harmed them through sheer Gryffindor thoughtlessness, yes. But Harry genuinely did mean well, and he had gone to unexpected lengths to defend Draco's good name in the past, and to defend Draco's person only the day before. And he might not be as strikingly attractive as Justin, but Draco had, much as he might have denied it even to himself, fancied Harry Potter as long as he could remember actually fancying anyone. Of all the people in the school, it was always Potter whose achievements he had tried to beat, always Potter whose face he sought out in the Great Hall, always Potter he was glancing across at in class, or on the Quidditch pitch, or in Hogsmeade. It had always been Harry Potter at the centre of Draco's world, and Draco was only now starting to realise what that meant.

Not for the first time, Draco wondered what the world would have been like if he had successfully befriended Harry Potter before the Weasel got hold of him.

And then, because he had never been very good at resisting temptation, Draco leaned forward a little way, splayed one hand on Harry's warm chest, and pressed a kiss onto Harry Potter's unresisting mouth.

Harry made a small, puzzled sound, but he was pulling Draco closer and kissing him back before he had woken up properly, and although most of Draco's anatomy was sore enough to bring tears to his eyes, the kiss itself was sweet. Harry Potter, as Draco had reason to recall, was surprisingly good at the business of kissing.

Harry's eyes snapped open, and Draco was surprised afresh by just how green they were without the thin layer of glass protecting them. And then Harry pulled away, startled, and blinked at him. His expression was impossible to read. Draco, suddenly uncertain, offered him a tentative smile.

"Good morning," he said, one hand still resting on Harry's chest. "I understand it's customary for heroic rescuers to be rewarded for their troubles. Not that I'm exactly a virginal maiden, or Lucius a dragon, but the theory's still sound. I'd give you half my kingdom, but I seem to have mislaid it somewhere -- so instead, perhaps --?"

What he had not expected was to have Harry flinch away as if burnt. A surge of unexpected humiliation washed over Draco and his tongue grew still.

"No," said Harry, wriggling back out of the way until he was in some danger of falling off the bed. "No, you don't have to do that. It's not -- you don't owe me anything. It's okay." He was breathing hard. Draco stared at him.

"Oh," Draco said after a moment. He lay back and studied the ceiling, wondering whether his face was as red as it felt. "Right. Well. I thought -- when you were here in my bed, I thought -- but evidently not. Right."

"Sorry, no -- my fault," stammered Harry. "Totally my fault -- I just didn't want to leave you alone after everything. But you really don’t owe me anything, Draco -- I didn't do it for a reward. I just -- I like you, and you needed help, and I could help. So I did. I didn't expect – um." He drew a shaky breath. "I mean, it's not always about what you can get out of a situation."

"You sound like Neville," said Draco, too tired, not to mention too naked, to get out of bed and storm away. "This crazy idealism must be the defining trait the Sorting Hat seeks in Gryffindors."

"Possibly," agreed Harry. He sounded thoroughly uncomfortable. Draco sighed. They both lay still for several minutes, avoiding one another's eyes.

"Well, isn't this awkward," said Draco, at last.

"I'll make breakfast," Harry said at the same time.

 

* * *

 

"What are all these things," asked Draco, studying the contents of the kitchen like a man faced with proof of alien life. Harry swallowed a mouthful of tea, wishing it were vodka, and glanced uncertainly in Draco's direction. He found his gaze being studiously avoided as Draco made a big production of examining the fridge.

It was a kitchen like any other Muggle kitchen; not quite up to Aunt Petunia's standard of interior decor, but clean enough and pleasant enough nevertheless. There were children's paintings blue-tacked onto the wall and the chairs around the kitchen table didn't quite match the table itself. There were photographs and shopping lists on the fridge, and an apron with some twee legend or another inscribed across the front hung from the peg beside the door. Harry rather liked the place, and felt, in the cold light of day, quite guilty about intruding. Still, he reflected, it wasn't doing anyone any harm, and it was better than the two of them sleeping in a hedge. And he would definitely send the family a handsome, if baffling, recompense as soon as he had access to his funds again. This knowledge had made him feel slightly less dreadful for rummaging through their freezer and appropriating a loaf of bread in order to make toast. "And how on earth do you know how to use them, Potter?" asked Malfoy, peering curiously at the toaster into which four slices of frozen bread had been stuffed a few moments earlier.

"I'm the Muggle equivalent of a house elf, as far as the Dursleys are concerned," Harry said, tipping cornflakes into his bowl. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that, in a parallel universe where he was a little bit less conscientious he would be upstairs having sex with Draco right now. "I have studied the complex arts of operating the toaster and the kettle. Muggle kitchens hold no fear for me."

"The Muggle equivalent of a house elf," repeated Draco, wandering over to the fridge. "Are these letters important? They move around, but they don't come off -- oh. I didn't -- is it broken? Huh." Harry found himself unable to suppress a smile as Draco, somewhat baffled, investigated the children's fridge magnets. "It sticks back on there by itself," he announced after a moment. "We didn't cover this in the textbook. Are you sure it isn't magical?"

"Science," said Harry. "It's all to do with -- er. Electrons. I think. Or something. Possibly the North Pole. Hermione probably knows. But it's not magic, it's science. Muggles do pretty well without magic -- light, heat, moving staircases, all that kind of thing. But they don’t have Quidditch."

For a moment Draco's eyes met Harry's and they were in perfect accord about the horror of life without Quidditch. Then Draco reddened and they both looked away.

"Why's this one white, anyway?" asked Draco, hurriedly. Harry sipped his tea, and considered the skinny figure in its borrowed Muggle T-shirt. Draco had kissed him. And it could well just be out of gratitude, or shock, but it could also be that Draco did fancy him just a bit. This was a pleasant thought. This was a very pleasant thought. Harry reflected that he was quite possibly a complete pillock to have turned Draco down.

"It's the fridge," said Harry. "Aren't you going to eat? It's a long journey." Draco ignored him and tugged at the door handle. He looked surprised by the slight resistance and tugged harder, and then jumped when it swung open.

"Why do they keep the light in here?" he asked. His face was the picture of honest puzzlement. Harry wanted very much to kiss him again.

"Draco," he said, in a tone that brooked no opposition. "Stop fidgeting with the furniture. Sit down. Eat some breakfast." Draco looked startled, but he complied. For a moment Harry thought there was going to be another stupid argument, but Draco evidently decided against it this once. He made a point of sitting as far from Harry as possible, however, and still didn't look at Harry directly.

"I'd prefer bacon and eggs," Draco said, grumpily.

"So would I. What we've got, however, is cornflakes. And there should be toast in a minute."

"Oh." Draco picked up the carton of UHT milk uncertainly and tipped it over his bowl. "I've seen people eat these before. You like them, don't you? You're always eating them at Hogwarts. They look vile." He took a mouthful and pulled a face. "And, unsurprisingly, they taste vile. But I suppose one can't be picky in the circumstances." For a moment or two the only sound in the kitchen was the tinny scrape of spoons against china and the quiet munching of cornflakes. They both jumped when the toast popped out of the toaster. Harry laughed at himself, embarrassed, but Draco continued to stare about him wide-eyed, as if it had been the opening volley of a Death Eater attack.

"It's just the toaster," said Harry, getting to his feet. "Muggle technology. Crappy Muggle technology, designed to either burn bread or not-quite toast it. I don't know how the house elves manage to get it so damned perfect every time." He transferred the slightly blackened toast onto a plate, then set it in the centre of the table with some jam and spread.

Draco abandoned his cornflakes and took a piece of toast without looking directly at Harry. He picked up the yellow carton and studied the lid quizzically, then slathered its contents over the toast and took a cautious bite. After a couple of mouthfuls he looked back at the lid and glanced over at Harry.

"Well, I, for one, can believe it's not butter," he announced. His voice was a little shaky, but he was making a valiant bid for withering nonchalance. Harry grinned despite himself.

There was a rattle at the door and they both jumped again.

"Postman," said Harry, after a moment. "It'll be the postman." Draco looked blank. "Instead of owls -- Muggles have a person who brings the post by hand."

"I know that," snapped Draco. Harry opened his mouth and then shrugged. "After a little while Draco added, "What do you suppose happened? At Hogwarts? You said they were going to attack at dawn, and Lucius said -- but -- Dumbledore does know about it all, then? About -- about Justin? So it will be all right?"

"They know about Justin," said Harry. "Moaning Myrtle spilled the beans about the ghosts working for Voldemort, but at first I still thought it was Snape who was their link to him. But Myrtle said it was a Hufflepuff boy -- and then Justin gave himself away during your Quidditch session with Neville. He knew what was going to happen before it happened. Dumbledore has him now."

"So they know -- so they won't be vulnerable after all. They'll still be there when we get back."

"Of course they will," said Harry, startled. "My God – have you been worrying about that all this time? It's fine. They'll be there. They're safe." He didn't mention that he knew for a fact that all the mirrors in Hogwarts were presently in glittering shards, or that Voldemort's mirrors were similarly destroyed. Even if Justin or the ghosts had somehow broken free, there would be no way for Voldemort to attack the school now. Harry found that his appetite was gone. He put down his spoon. This little pocket of time was allowing him not to think about what he had finally become, but very soon they would return to Hogwarts and he would have to have a very long talk with Professor Dumbledore.

Something banged against the window, and once again they both jumped. A moment later, the source of the sound revealed itself.

"Hedwig!" Harry exclaimed, with mixed feelings. "Well done, girl!"

* * * 

Professor Snape was standing in precisely the same spot he had occupied the last time that Draco awoke in the Infirmary.

"You're alive, then," he said harshly, by way of greeting. Draco pushed the pale tangle of his hair back out of his eyes and sat up, blinking sleepily. Glancing around he saw that they were alone in the room. He was pleasantly surprised to see that his bedside table was still piled high with flowers and, it appeared, the entire contents of Honeydukes. Evidently that had not been a dream after all. Having successfully warned Dumbledore in time to avert Voldemort's attack, Draco and Harry had been welcomed back like conquering heroes. Professor Snape, utterly against all expectation, had greeted Draco's arrival with a bone-crushing embrace which evidently embarrassed him as much as it surprised everyone else, and had promptly swept away without saying a word. Draco hadn't seen him since.

"Sorry to disappoint you, sir," said Draco, his tone uncharacteristically tentative. The Potions Master pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulders, his hands still deep in the pockets of his robe, and stepped towards the bed. He was scowling ferociously.

"Not at all," he said. There was a brief pause, whilst Snape's dark brows drew together. He seemed to be searching for the right words. After a moment he sat down stiffly on the end of the bed and glared at the wall. "I think perhaps – it is possible that I owe you an apology, Mr Malfoy."

Draco blinked. "It seems that hallucinations are a side effect of Madam Pomfrey's medicines. I could have sworn you just offered to apologise to me, Professor."

Snape's glower intensified still further. "Mr Malfoy, kindly shut up. If you cannot refrain from making snide remarks I may forget my impulse towards courtesy and content myself with poisoning your soup."

"Sorry, sir," said Draco swiftly. "Um. Apology accepted." There was a frosty little pause. "Might I ask exactly why you're apologising, though, Professor?"

Snape examined the pile of sweets with an expression of disfavour. He was, Draco realised, trying to avoid looking at him. "I am afraid that I have not done you justice, Mr Malfoy. It seemed to me entirely implausible that you should be able to escape from your father and his master and make your way to Hogwarts unassisted. I was sure that you were here under false pretences, or at least working as their puppet. I was in error. Indeed, I remained shamefully oblivious to Mr Finch Fletchley's perfidy and was fool enough to throw the two of you together, which was precisely what Lucius Malfoy wanted. Although I dare say that Lucius was unaware of quite how easily Finch Fletchley would be able to, ah, work his way into your confidence."

"Oh," said Draco, suddenly feeling sick. "Yes. That. Well, apology accepted."

"So I should hope." They stared at one another. Draco wondered whether they would ever be on the friendly terms they had once enjoyed. It seemed like they ought to be friendly, but an awful lot of things had changed over the past few years. "I am – I am happy to see you looking well, Mr Malfoy. No doubt the headmaster will wish to be apprised of your condition – and I believe that there is a rather unpromising Gryffindor who would like to speak to you." He raised his voice. "Mr Longbottom? Stop lurking around outside, for the love of Circe. I haven't turned him into a frog." Neville gave an involuntary laugh, and to Draco's surprise Snape almost smiled. "Besides, I have far more important things to do than waste my time with invalids." Draco glanced over at the door and smiled when he saw Neville peering sheepishly around one edge of the door frame. "Good morning to you, Mr Malfoy. I shall let your – wholly extraordinary choice of friend fill you in on events at Hogwarts in the wake of your precipitous departure." He rose in a swirl of dark robes and stalked off to the door. Neville bobbed out of the way, and then a moment later he ventured into the Infirmary on his own.

"Grape?"

Neville's voice snapped Draco out of his reverie, and he glanced up to see the other boy crossing the Infirmary floor. Draco looked at the crumpled bag Neville was holding out and smiled. Neville sat down and then jumped up again, reaching into his pocket and producing a bunch of sunflowers with a flourish. Draco laughed. Light poured out of the flowers. Neville grinned shyly.

"I transfigured them myself," he said. "They were candles."

"Good grief." Draco surveyed the flowers, half expecting them to sprout horns or turn blue. They did neither. "Well done you, Neville. Miracles will never cease."

Neville watched him carefully and then waved the bag of grapes again.

"Grape?" he repeated, hopefully. Draco tried to smile.

"How disarmingly wholesome. Very Neville Longbottom." Neville rolled his eyes and after a moment Draco did smile. "This potion Madam Pomfrey's got me drinking has played merry hell with my tastebuds; so far I've established that tea tastes blue, chocolate frogs taste of anchovies and liquorice tastes like a violin playing B flat. I can only imagine what grapes will be like."

"Try one and see?"

"Go on then." Draco plucked a grape a little shakily and popped it into his mouth. The room was very quiet around them. "Violets," he announced after a moment. "Who would have guessed?"

"Sort of like Bertie Bott's Beans," said Neville helpfully. "Only it's the whole world that's tasting unexpected."

"Hmm," agreed Draco. He drummed his fingers on the bedside table and stared at the bag of grapes. "So Justin's at the Ministry, then?"

"Yes."

"Right. Good. Fine. He didn't – do we have any idea why the hell he did all this?" Draco's voice broke slightly. He wasn't looking at Neville, because he was fairly sure that if he did look at Neville he was going to embarrass himself still more than he had already, one way or another.

"Other than because he's a complete cunt, you mean?" asked Neville. Draco gasped, and stared at Neville in spite of himself.

"Neville!"

"Am I wrong?"

"Neville Longbottom!"

"Don't get me started," said Neville. He looked like he meant it. Draco felt oddly flattered by the vicious expression on Neville's face.

"So much for the much-vaunted Hufflepuff loyalty, then," he muttered, picking up the bunch of grapes again and examining it carefully. "Treacherous bastard should have been in Slytherin, Muggle parentage be damned."

Neville sighed. "Well, to be fair – and it kills me to say this – he was being loyal, in a way." Draco stared. "To his family. Just not to us. The long and the short of it is that he thought we were going to lose the war and that You Know Who was going to win, and over the summer he cut a deal with your dad. Ever the pragmatist, Justin Finch Fletchley. God knows how he first contacted the Death Eaters, but he did."

Draco stared at Neville blankly. "But why in Merlin's name did he think this was a good idea? He's a – he's Muggle-born. The Death Eaters want to wipe out Muggles and Muggle-born wizards. It's their raison d'etre." His voice cracked. "Did he not get the memo? Did he think they just wanted to give all Muggles a jolly good talking to? This is ridiculous."

Neville sighed. He helped himself to a grape and started rolling it absently between his finger and thumb. "Not so ridiculous. Tom Riddle wasn't a pureblood, and Justin knew that." Neville shrugged. "He thought that he'd be one of the first to be killed if Voldemort won -- unless he gave them a reason not to kill him. A good reason. And who would suspect a Muggle-born Hufflepuff of sending coded letters from Hogwarts to the Death Eaters? It was the perfect cover."

"But Voldemort would have killed him anyway," said Draco, with absolute certainty. "How could he have doubted that? Why would he – oh, fuck. I don't want to think about it. Damn."

Neville squeezed Draco's forearm sympathetically, and then looked embarrassed. "Yeah, You Know Who would have killed him, I reckon. But Justin thought that he was getting some kind of leverage." Draco stared at him blankly and Neville shrugged. "A lot of the Muggle-born wizards have been scared living with their families during the summer – they know the truth behind all these attacks on Muggles, even if the Muggle media keeps putting it down to freakish natural disasters. He was scared, the little toad, and he thought he could save his arse this way. He didn't mind throwing the rest of us to the wolves so long as he and his family were going to be okay. People do this kind of thing more often than you'd think. Muggle history's full of it. Come to that, wizarding history's full of it too. Most people aren't very brave."

"You are," said Draco, without thinking. "Potter is."

Neville looked pleased, and slightly embarrassed. "Well, we're Gryffindors," he said. "Comes with the territory. Dash in where angels fear to tread and all that. We put the fool into foolhardy." There was a little pause. "You're pretty brave yourself, though. For a Slytherin."

"I'm a freak," said Draco decisively. He ate another grape and nodded. "Clearly."

"Tell me something we don't already know."

"Sod off." There was a companionable silence while they both munched on grapes. "Still violets," Draco said, after a moment.

"Hmm."

"Why didn't they guess sooner? If he was sending letters to the Death Eaters? Isn't it rather obvious? And why didn't he get caught, if he was doing all this spying?"

Neville rolled his eyes. "When did I become the fount of all knowledge?"

"You're here, aren't you? And you do know, don't you?"

"Well, yes. And yes." Neville grinned, and then his smile faded. "After you'd vanished, and the shit comprehensively hit the fan, Professor Snape fed him Veritaserum and he sang like a lark. Spilled everything. The clever thing was that he was sending coded letters inside the letters back to his family and they were posting them on to another address for him using Muggle post. He made it look like they were letters to Muggle friends, but in fact they were going to a post office box which was enchanted to work as a portkey on the inside, and so all his letters were being whisked off to Voldemort via the Royal Mail." Draco nodded knowledgably.

"Muggle owls," he said, in the tone of an expert.

Neville smiled. "That's right. Most of the spying was being done by the ghosts, and Justin was relaying the information they gathered back to Voldemort. When you arrived here, it was completely unexpected. They wanted to get you kicked out of Hogwarts, because Voldemort wanted you back so he could make an example of you, and this was the only place you were safe from him." Draco shivered. "They were basically making it up as they went along, and not doing a terribly good job of it. Finally your father ran out of patience and owled him a port key."

"The snitch."

"The snitch," agreed Neville.

"Bastard," said Draco with feeling. They both helped themselves to more grapes. "So – it was all a lie, then. All along." Draco's voice was carefully even. Neville looked worried. "Just like my father said. Not that I thought I'd found true love, or anything ridiculous like that, you understand. But – well. I thought Justin did fancy me. For me. And even like me, a little." There was an awkward pause, while Neville visibly wracked his brain for something useful to say. Draco shrugged. "Let that be a lesson to me. It's always about using people."

"Don't say that," said Neville, furiously. "You're wrong. You're completely wrong. I mean, yes, he was in it up to the neck, but that doesn't mean everyone's always out for what they can get. It doesn't. It just means that Justin was a self-serving little gobshite. But he fooled us all, even Dumbledore. Even Snape. Not just you. And as to fancying you – well obviously he fancied you. "

"Hmm," said Draco noncommittally. Neville made a frustrated noise.

"Anyway, bugger Justin." He caught Draco's eye and they both laughed at the same moment. "No," gasped Neville, some minutes later, when his breathing was even again. "No, you know what I mean. Forget about him." He looked at Draco very hard. "Don't you like Harry?" Draco promptly inhaled the grape he was eating, and Neville had to pound him on the back. Draco blessed the effectiveness of Madam Pomfrey's potions; being thumped on the back would have been excruciating six hours earlier. "Um. Sorry about that," Neville said at last, looking sheepish. "Are you okay?"

"Mmph."

"Sorry. Um. But, Draco – Harry likes you. A lot. He knocked ten bells out of Dean and Seamus just for taking the piss out of you and Justin, back before all this blew up. He's spending all his time chasing after you rather than spending time with Ron and Hermione. I've never seen him like this. Ever. You're the reason things went wrong with Cho. He really likes you, Draco."

Draco shifted uncomfortably, remembering the way Potter had flinched at his touch. "We're something like friends now. Maybe. But that's all there is to it, Neville. Don't look at me like that! It's true. He isn't interested now." Draco's attention was fixed on the bunch of grapes, to all appearances trying to select the very finest possible grape of all. "And even if he were, the last thing I need right now is to get mixed up with another bloke." There was a slight frown of concentration on his face until at last he plucked one grape that met some secret set of criteria. It looked the same as all the others, to Neville's distracted eye. Draco popped it in his mouth and nodded appreciatively. "Delicious," he said. "Strange, but delicious."


	35. Chapter 35

Of all the people who might conceivably have taken it upon themselves to visit him in the Infirmary, Ron Weasley was arguably the last person whom Draco would have expected to see. He paused in the act of plucking another seedless grape from the fat bunch that Neville had brought, and eyed Ron with unvarnished curiosity.

"Did you take a wrong turning?" he inquired, after a little pause. Ron glowered at him. Draco felt himself begin to smile. "Or did you, perhaps, drop by to peel me a grape?" He held out the fruit in its battered nest of white paper and watched Ron's pink mouth tighten.

"You're feeling better, then," said Ron, visibly making an effort. He crossed the room with a marked lack of enthusiasm and dragged one of the empty chairs a little further away from Draco's bed before he sat down. Draco watched him quizzically.

"Madame Pomfrey has been her usual zealous self," he said. "I was high as a kite for most of the evening, but I believe that particular potion is wearing off again. The grapes taste almost exactly like grapes now." He popped one into his mouth by way of demonstration.

"Oh." Ron did not appear particularly interested. He licked his lips and fidgeted with the sleeve of his robe, looking everywhere but Draco's face. The space between his freckles was darkening from milk white to an unflattering shade of red with which Draco was familiar. This was all most odd. "Well. It's good you're feeling better."

"Yes," Draco agreed mildly. "Isn't it?"

"I want you to leave Harry alone," Ron said suddenly, the words tumbling over themselves in his haste to be rid of them. There was an embarrassed pause and they stared at one another across the blankets. "I want you to promise that you aren't going to -- you know. Do anything. Lead him on. Try to make him -- well. Like you."

It occurred to Draco, after a startled moment, that gaping like a fish was not one of his more attractive looks. He closed his mouth and searched for an appropriate response that did not involve the use of dark magic.

"Make him like me?" he repeated coldly. "Witty? Urbane? Blond? Devilishly handsome?"

"Irritating, smug, amoral and mean-spirited, I think you mean," replied Ron tartly. "But don't pretend you don't understand me. I've seen the way that you look at him, Malfoy. It's not fair." Ron paused, bit his lip and drew a deep breath. When he continued he had lowered his voice. Someone, Draco reflected, had evidently had a word with him about self-control recently. "Frankly I'm not even sure that I believe this whole gay thing of his -- I think it could be a phase or something. Possibly a spell." He gave Draco a very pointed look. "But either way, I'm not going to let you hurt him. Even if he is a -- even if he's like you, he's still worlds too good for you. He's my best friend. I'll kill you if you hurt him."

Draco stared.

"You are - let me get this straight, as it were; you are asking me whether my intentions are honourable?"

"Hardly," snapped Ron. "I'm telling you to stay the hell away from my friend. He's acting like a love-struck idiot, and it's perfectly obvious why. You've been flirting with him like a, like a veela ever since you came back to school, only I was too damned stupid to recognise it at first. It wasn't until Ginny said that - " His eyes widened. "In fact -- good grief." He drew in a sharp breath. "You've been flirting with him for years."

"I most certainly have not!" exclaimed Draco indignantly.

"Yes you have." Ron looked thoroughly astonished at this sudden revelation. "But -- but it's all wrong. I know you're just messing around -- you just like the attention, just like getting the upper hand every bloody time. It's all about power with you, Malfoy. You can't help it. But Harry isn't like that, and he doesn’t get it. He thinks you're something special -- he's got some stupid romantic idea about you." Ron looked like the words scorched his tongue. "It's not enough that he thinks he's gay -- he has to be gay and obsessing over Draco Malfoy. Even though you were choosing bloody treacherous Death Eater wannabes instead of him."

"Shut. Up."

"You're going to hurt him, but I'm not going to sit back and let it happen, damn it. I'm telling you. Don't. Just -- don't. Just leave him alone."

In the ensuing pause, Draco maintained his composure with some difficulty. He forbore to mention that Potter had very clearly managed to get over whatever fleeting crush he had once harboured.

"And what," he said at last, in a vicious tone that was entirely too like his father's for comfort, "in the name of all that's magical, makes you imagine for the briefest of moments that I would ever pay a blind bit of notice to what you want or don't want? The great respect I feel for you? The sheer terror instilled by the thought of incurring the wrath of Weasley? A sudden attack of unprecedented philanthropy?"

"Are you going to make this difficult?" asked Ron, coldly.

"Yes," replied Draco, after a moment's reflection. "Yes, I rather think that I am."

"Malfoy, if you don't promise to leave him alone I will make you regret it. I swear it." To his credit, Ron looked entirely serious and actually a little intimidating. "Promise me you won't try to seduce him."

"No," said Draco, relishing the effect that the single syllable had upon his visitor.

"No?"

"No. In fact, if you don't get your self-righteous and virginal Gryffindor arse out of the room within the next ten seconds, I may very well promise to shag him insensible the next time I set eyes on him."

"Damn it, Malfoy! You owe him. He saved your bloody life -- the least you could do is stop playing stupid cat and mouse games with him. Don't be such a total shit."

"Weasley, you have already established that I am, in fact, a total shit. So if you don't want me to unleash my big gay wand and transform you too into a mincing queen with a taste for Slytherins, then I suggest you run off to play with your skinny little girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend," snapped Ron automatically. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Then for the love of Circe, you useless oaf, ask her out before she finally comes to her senses and stops fancying you altogether." Ron stared. "Now - Go. Away."

* * * 

Draco was practicing his Quidditch moves with Neville when Harry, following Dobby's directions, finally tracked him down. The sun was low in the sky, its honey-coloured light casting long purple shadows as dusk approached. Harry took a seat in one of the back rows of the empty stadium and watched them pensively. Neville's flying had certainly improved over the years, but he wasn't going to find himself headhunted by the Huddersfield Hawks or the Brentford Bats any time soon. The two broomsticks swooped and dived in complicated patterns that Harry knew by heart, and occasionally the wind carried snatches of laughter or the tail end of an insult down to the stands. They seemed to be having fun. Evidently Draco had no intention of letting a little thing like magical kidnapping traumatise him out of his Quidditch practice.

He put his feet up on the back of one of the chairs in front of his, laced his fingers together behind his head, and watched Draco darting back and forth through the sky.

"Harry!" The familiar voice pulled him out of his own thoughts, and he glanced across to find Cho Chang standing nearby. It was the first time they had been alone since she slapped him -- almost the first time she'd spoken to him since then, in fact. He bit his lip and studied her face for some sign of what she wanted. Cho really was a very pretty girl, he reflected.

"I'm sorry," he said abruptly. She looked startled, and he was a little ashamed by that. "I mean, about how things turned out. With us. I'm sorry I wasn't a better boyfriend."

"Huh." Cho's expression was difficult to read. "Me too."

"You deserved better," he agreed. "You're beautiful, and clever, and -- and a terrific Quidditch player. You're the perfect girlfriend."

"So I hear," she said. Something told Harry that he might be on the verge of getting slapped again, but he carried on regardless. "I mean it. If I could ever be in love with a girl, it would be you. But -- well, the truth is that I just don't fancy girls, really. Not like I fancy -- well. You know. Blokes. Um. Sorry. I wasn't trying to mess you around, honestly -- I just wanted to be normal, and I thought that I could be if I just tried really hard. I think you knew the truth before I did myself. The whole idea of being, well, gay -- it scared me stiff. I was a prat. I'm sorry I hurt you." He would have continued, but she raised one hand in a placatory gesture and it cut him off.

"Enough," Cho said, her voice harsh. "Harry -- look, you were a lousy boyfriend but I know you're a good man. I do know that. So can we just leave it at that? Please? Because I really don't want to talk about all this, okay?"

"Oh." He blinked. "Well - okay then." There was an awkward pause, and then to his surprise Cho sat down, leaving one empty seat between them. Harry waited, but she didn't say anything, and after a puzzled moment he looked back up at the darting figures in the air. They both sat quietly, and distant laughter reached their ears again. The sky was a ridiculously beautiful chaos of colours now as the sun dipped to the horizon, and Draco and Neville had become silhouettes identifiable only by their respective skill.

"So what did you want to talk about?" asked Harry at last, glancing sidelong at Cho.

"Nothing," she said, sounding defensive. "I'm here to see Neville."

"Oh." Harry watched the distant figure of Neville Longbottom valiantly trying to pull off a Mobius loop under Draco's bellowed instructions. A startling thought crossed his mind and he blinked, and then turned to stare at Cho. Her cheeks were definitely redder than usual, although it could have been from the sunset. "Oh!" he exclaimed, and she swallowed.

"Yes," she said, and her eyes dared him to make something of it. Harry turned away again hurriedly.

"Well! That's -- um. That's nice."

"Yes, it is," agreed Cho. "Very." After another awkward pause she added: "I didn't expect to find you here."

"I didn't expect to be here," he said, glancing back at her. To his surprise she smiled at him, and he remembered why he had always thought her the prettiest girl in the school.

"Life's funny that way, isn't it?" Cho said. She looked happy.

 

* * *

 

Harry stopped Draco outside the changing room. Harry watched the familiar grey eyes widen. Neville glanced from one to the other, uncertainly, and seemed on the brink of saying something – but then he saw Cho in the distance and his face lit up. He waved at her, grinned encouragingly at Harry, and then ducked inside to shower and change, leaving them to it.

Draco's white-blond hair was so damp it seemed almost brown. His face was flushed and beaded with sweat and he was breathing quite heavily. Harry had a sudden impulse to lean forward and lick the salt from the indent of his lip, but he resisted it. Draco brushed the back of one hand across his forehead and then closed it over the handle of his borrowed broom, trying to read Harry's intent.

"I think we need to talk," Harry said awkwardly. Draco cocked his head and surveyed Harry.

"You do make it sound terribly dire, Potter," he said, lightly. Should I be worried?"

"No, I don't think so." Harry had never been particularly good at this. It had, after all, taken him years to actually ask Cho out on a date, and his previous attempt at sticking his neck out where Draco Malfoy was concerned had been humiliatingly unsuccessful. He drew a deep breath. "I just thought -- maybe we could talk. About -- ah. Things."

"Things," repeated Draco. He had still not taken his eyes off Harry's, and there was the trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. This was having an unfortunate, but all too predictable, side effect upon Harry's body. Draco licked his lips and Harry glanced down to watch the pink sliver of tongue dart wetly across the edge of Draco's mouth. He shivered. Draco smiled. "Perhaps you should come inside, then."

"Um. I'm not sure if that's such a good – um. I mean. Um. Right. Okay." Draco's smile was getting broader by the moment, and if he dared to take the piss out of Harry, Harry was damned well going to turn him into a frog. Really. Heaven knows he had the power to do it. He swallowed. Draco's glance flickered over his mouth and rested on his bobbing Adam's Apple for a moment, and then Draco turned and walked into the changing room without a backward glance.

"Come on then, if you're coming."

Harry bit his lip and stepped inside.

Neville was already out of his robes and could be heard singing in the shower, and the familiar sound of Neville's tuneless rendition of Yellow Submarine was reassuringly normal. Harry found himself smiling, and then he saw Draco starting to open his robes and he hurriedly sat down on one of the benches, keeping his back firmly to Draco.

"So what's on your mind, Potter?" Draco's voice was slightly muffled. That would be the robe, Harry told himself, unable to help visualising it coming off. Damn.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't come to see you in the Infirmary. Dumbledore wanted to hear all about the ghosts and how I got to the Manor, and about how we got away, and so did Professor Snape – and then we had to go to the Ministry so that Mr Weasley could hear it all, and – well, it took quite a while, what with travelling down to London and back again. I told them about using Imperius," he added, after a moment. "There was quite a lot of – discussion – about that. And about me dashing off into danger without permission, and without telling anyone what I was up to -- but in the circumstances I got let off pretty lightly." He drew another deep breath and didn't mention that he was now, apparently, the most powerful wizard in recorded history. It took some getting used to. Learning how to control his new-found power responsibly was going to take up an awful lot of his time, and in the immediate future there was going to be a showdown with Voldemort which he no longer feared losing – although he found himself, strangely, almost fearful of what would happen to him when he had won. "Um. Sorry, though. You're feeling better, then?"

"Better? Well, yes. Yes, all things considered I'm feeling remarkably chipper, thanks to Madame Pomfrey's ministrations. She's patched me up pretty well. And Professor Snape was kind enough to bring me a dram of Lethe distillate; it hasn't actually taken my memories away, you understand, but it has rather numbed them. Which is a blessing. I still feel a little bruised, physically and emotionally, but the potions are working a treat."

"Good. I – um. That's good."

"Mmm." There was a little pause. Harry bit his lip harder and felt grateful for the blessed thickness of his robes. He was entirely too excited about Draco's proximity. "Was that all?" Harry jumped. Draco's voice was startlingly close; he must be standing right behind Harry's bench. Possibly naked.

"Uh," said Harry. Naked, he thought, frantically, and abruptly he was every inch the seventeen year old boy. Quite possibly. Right there, and naked. If he leaned back a little – oh dear God. Harry didn't lean back. "I was wondering whether -- that is, Ron said -- only he probably got the wrong idea because obviously you don't fancy me, because you fancied Justin, and who could blame you, but then he was a complete bastardly treacherous shithead and so you're not exactly likely to be feeling like – only Ron thought that maybe – um." He was gabbling. Gabbling was not sexy or cool. He drew a deep breath. "Look, the thing is that I'm absofuckinglutely mad about you. And I think maybe I always have been. Um." The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of Neville's singing and the roar of the shower. Harry clenched his fists at his sides in the fabric of his robe and waited, but Draco still wasn't saying anything. This wasn't going quite as well as he'd hoped. "Er. Look, I know we sort of talked about this before, and you were pretty pissed off. And then when we were in that house you said we could – but – I mean, I really did want to, you know. Er. The sex thing. I wanted that." Harry was fairly sure that he had never blushed harder in his life. He could feel the tips of his ears burning. He was almost certain that he could have toasted marshmallows on his skin. And Draco, damn him, was still not saying a damned thing. "Only, you know, you don't owe me anything. I didn't go to find you because I wanted something in return. I just wanted you out of there, Draco. So – er. That's it, really. I thought you should know." The silence was spectacularly uncomfortable. Harry wondered whether it was conceivable that Draco had actually finished getting dressed and left without him hearing. "Although I could be wrong about that," he added, ruefully, "and right about now I'm rather wishing that I'd lost my tongue in some sort of freak accident and was not having this whole conversation. This whole very one-sided conversation. Damn it, Draco, say something!"

Draco's hand was warm against the back of Harry's neck and it made him jump.

"But it's such fun making you squirm, Potter," Draco said, far closer than Harry was expecting. Harry could hear the smile in his voice, and his breath tickled Harry's ear. "You do it so very well. Come here." Harry turned around very quickly, brimming with relief and hopeful anticipation, and stood up.

Draco was not, as it turned out, naked; that had been Harry's zealous imagination. He was, however, shirtless, and this was a pretty good beginning. He felt even better than Harry remembered.

"You really are – quite something," said Harry, breathlessly, after a little while.

Draco grinned against him. "I know."

"Pity you're so ugly, really."

"Sod off," said Draco, and kissed him again.

Some moments later, Harry gave in to a regrettably Gryffindorish impulse, and pulled his mouth away from Draco's. "Look, you should probably know that I'm officially the most powerful wizard in the world right now. Um."

Draco snorted with laughter. "Modesty never was your strong suit, was it?"

"Fuck off! I'm serious, Draco."

"So you're actually living up to the advertising, then? About bloody time, Potter. Get on with saving the world, already, so we can start having some serious fun. I really fancy a holiday somewhere sunny."

Harry kissed him very hard, and for several minutes he completely forgot what he had been going to say next. At last, however, he came up for breath again, determined to start off with a clean slate. "And one more thing – this would probably be a bad moment to tell you that Justin gave me a, well, a handjob while he was seeing you, wouldn't it?" Draco froze. Harry slid his fingers into the hair at the nape of Draco's neck and waited. "If setting you up and trying to deliver you to an untimely death at the hands of the self-styled nemesis of the Wizarding World counts as seeing you." Draco's breath tickled Harry's throat, but he said nothing. "If you're going to throw a hissy fit, you'd better do it now, because I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not starting out with any more stupid skeletons in the closet. In fact, all my closets are going to be wide open from now on, so you'd better get used to it." He felt Draco's chest shake with reluctant laughter, and relief shot through him.

"Bloody Justin," said Draco, with feeling. Harry kissed his cheekbone and held on until the sudden tension had all melted away again. "Bloody, bloody Justin."

"He was warning me away from you," Harry said, carefully. "Justin may be a total bastard, but he's not stupid. Afterwards I didn't know what to do with myself, which was just what he'd intended. He didn't realise I'd end up trying to distract myself by talking to Myrtle about Peeves, though – because he didn't realise that we'd got Peeves in a jar. Which is just as well."

"Fine," said Draco, at last. "Fine." His fingers found their way through layers of clothing and they were trembling when they reached skin. "What's done is done. But, Potter, I don't want you to promise me anything, and I'm certainly not promising youanything. I don't want a boyfriend," he added, his voice shaking as he ran a fingertip over Harry's belly button. "Not even one who's the most powerful wizard in the world. And I don't want anything serious." He kissed Harry again, more slowly. "I'll definitely be seeing other men. Scores of them. You're probably a lousy shag – all you bloody wholesome Gryffindors just don't get out enough. And I don't even like you very much," added Draco between kisses, clinging to Harry like a drowning man clutching the only spar of driftwood in an icy sea.

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco's body, pulled him as close as he could and kissed him back hard. They had, in Harry's opinion, wasted far too much time already. "That's a pity," he said, his voice muffled. "Because you do drive me crazy, and you're the last person I ever thought I'd want to be with, but, God help me, I think I'm falling in love with you."

Draco froze. "Don't say that," he said harshly. "Don't – just don't say things like that."

Harry kissed his way along the line of Draco's throat. "All right," he said, after a moment. He didn't want to ever stop holding Draco. "All right. But it's still true."

"Shut up and kiss me," Draco snarled, sounding perilously close to tears.

So Harry did.

~ FINIS ~ 


End file.
